


Disco 2000

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Octavia Street musings [7]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Nick and Ilsa meet up again after six years, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 34,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23065675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Spring 2000. Nick and Ilsa meet up again.
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert & Cormoran Strike, Ilsa Herbert/Nick Herbert, Nick Herbert & Cormoran Strike
Series: Octavia Street musings [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1096452
Comments: 86
Kudos: 32





	1. Let’s All Meet Up In The Year 2000

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Disco 2000 rewrite that has been nagging at me for months and months. It’s the same story, essentially, just fleshed out more to explore what everyone is feeling. There’s not a lot that’s new plot-wise.
> 
> I’ve taken the old one out of the Octavia Street series, but it’s still on here under my list of works. I’ll probably delete it unless anyone passionately wants it to stay?
> 
> Also this is still not entirely finished, so NO PRESSURE LULA...

“You know blue mascara was over years ago, right?” Ilsa Angove said teasingly. Anything to take her mind off her nerves, to stop herself thinking too clearly about the evening ahead of her and why her heart was fluttering.

“It’s my signature look, I can’t abandon it now!” her flatmate Claire said lightly. “You’re just jealous because you’re not as blonde as me so you can’t carry it off.”

It was a teasing banter they had regularly as they prepared for nights out. The two young women, 26 years old, had met at law school and had been sharing a flat for nearly two years now, enjoying the London scene, working hard, studying hard, playing hard. All that would change soon, though, for Ilsa had recently accepted the proposal of her boyfriend Pete. _Fiancé_ , she told herself. _He’s my fiancé now._ The diamond sparkled on her third finger, catching the light, twinkling in the corner of her eye as she leaned over Claire’s shoulder to apply her own mascara in the mirror. She had her own mirror in her bedroom, but they had always got ready together.

“What time is Pete meeting us?” Claire asked, taking a sip of her getting-ready wine. They always had a little glass while they got dressed up; it was part of the tradition. She set her glass down and pulled her blue top a little straighter, smoothing out a crease.

“Er, he’s not,” Ilsa said, flushing slightly and turning away so that Claire wouldn’t spot her pink cheeks. She took a quick sip of her own wine. “He’s busy,” she added vaguely.

“Oh, okay,” Claire replied, fortunately missing her friend’s discomfort. She moved over to her wardrobe and began to hunt in the box of shoes in the bottom for her so-called fuck-me boots. “Shame he can’t be there to meet your old friend. What’s his name again? Something weird, wasn’t it?”

“Cormoran,” Ilsa said, and a fond smile formed on her face as she said her old friend’s name, the real reason for tonight’s nerves temporarily forgotten. “Cormoran Strike. I’ve known him since we were six, he’s an old friend from Cornwall.”

“That is a weird name. This is the Army guy, right?” Claire said. “Ooh, I do like a man in uniform.” She found the boots and flourished them, took them over and sat on the bed to start to pull them on.

Ilsa laughed. “I don’t think he’ll be wearing his uniform tonight,” she said. “He’s just got back from... somewhere. He did tell me. Or maybe he didn’t, he’s not always allowed to. But anyway, he says he’s got a few weeks off before his next assignment so he’s renting a flat in town and catching up with everyone.”

At the mention of “everyone”, her stomach lurched again. _He might not even be there,_ she told herself. She fiddled with her hair a bit again, frowning in the mirror at a stray strand and reaching for the hairspray.

“Is he sexy?” Claire asked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. “And more importantly, is he single?” She winked. Ilsa sprayed a quick squirt of hairspray and rolled her eyes fondly at her friend as she tried to tame the rogue piece of hair.

“Single, I don’t know,” she replied. “He has this on-again, off-again girlfriend, no idea if they’re currently together. I hope not, she’s a bit odd, would probably spoil the evening. And sexy? I’ve never fancied him, but he never seems to have any trouble pulling.” Satisfied with her hair, she stepped back from the mirror. She would do. Her deep green blouse was tucked snugly into her trousers, accentuating her waist. She knew she looked good.

Claire grinned wickedly. “I’d better get in there quick, then,” she said, and Ilsa giggled. “What are you like?” she said. She reached for her strappy heels and pulled them on, straightened up and took a last glance in the mirror. She was ready.

She tried not to think too carefully about the effort she had made. She did the same every time, and Nick was never there. She’d get dressed up, her stomach a bundle of nerves, get herself all worked up, and then he wouldn’t be there and she’d be half relieved and half disappointed. She’d berate herself for being so silly and resolve not to do it next time. This time she had the added layer of guilt because she had a fiancé. When had she last taken this much care to dress up for Pete?

She genuinely hoped Nick would be there this time. She could see him, maybe chat to him a bit, get her closure. Draw a line under it, finally. They’d dated for nine months, six years ago, and she was a little annoyed with herself for being unable to just forget about him, consign him to the past where he belonged. It was time to move on, start planning her wedding. She’d be Mrs Gardner soon.

Claire and Ilsa finished getting ready, putting the last touches to their make-up. They drained their glasses of wine and set off, locking up their flat and heading towards the pub in Soho that Strike had suggested for the get-together.

...

Nick leaned casually on the bar in the Rising Sun, idly chatting to an old school mate he hadn’t seen for some years. He had greeted Strike fondly, a warm handshake and a clap on the back for his old friend, and then moved off to say hello to the faces he recognised. Strike was still doing the rounds, greeting the gang he had managed to assemble, introducing Army colleagues to old school friends, making sure everyone had met everyone else.

Nick took a sip of his pint and set it back down, trying to concentrate on Will’s description of his job, nodding politely. A swift, furtive scan of the room when he arrived had revealed no sign of Ilsa, and his thumping heart was settling gradually. His gaze was pulled again and again to the door, his heart rate spiking every time it opened, admitting more people, none of whom were the one he wanted to see.

He wondered what he would feel when he saw her. He wondered if she would have changed much. It was surprising, really, that he hadn’t laid eyes on her since that miserable morning in Cornwall almost six years ago, the morning after he had ended their relationship.

It had taken a long time for his overriding memories of her to be better ones than the way she had looked that day, emotionally battered, dark circles like bruises under her eyes, her face blotchy from crying and lack of sleep. A long time for him to remember her without agonising stabs of guilt that he had caused her suffering. A long time to stop missing her desperately. A long time to get back into dating again, having convinced himself that if he was too busy concentrating on medicine to maintain a long-distance relationship with her, he couldn’t date anyone else either. A year of being single, a spell of casual hook-ups and a couple of brief relationships that had ended badly because of how little he put into them had followed.

He’d been tempted from time to time, usually at night, alone in the dark, to get back in touch with her. But to say what? The fact remained that they were students hundreds of miles apart, without the time or the money to keep regularly trekking the length of the country for snatched visits. He couldn’t change the geography or the timing of the situation, couldn’t jeopardise either of their careers just because he selfishly missed her. She haunted his dreams, but in his waking hours he refused to think about her, and slowly she’d faded in his consciousness.

In his early twenties he’d finally formed something of a connection with Sarah, a friend of someone on his course. They’d dated for over a year, his longest relationship so far. Passing the length of time he’d dated Ilsa had been an odd milestone to reach, not that it was acknowledged outside the privacy of his own head, and only served to underline for him that he didn’t feel for Sarah anything like what he’d felt for Ilsa. He persevered for another few months, but his heart wasn’t in it, and eventually, reluctantly, he’d ended it. She’d been upset, but not devastated.

Last year he had dated a lovely girl for a few months who he also still felt guilty about. With hindsight it had perhaps been a bad plan to take her to his sister’s wedding, but they’d been dating four months and Hannah and Ian had added her to the invitation, and he was enjoying her company.

She’d been delighted to be invited to a family wedding, clearly seeing it as some sort of signal of commitment. She’d met his family, decided she loved them all, tried to call his parents Mum and Dad, and in bed that night at the fancy Surrey hotel she had tipsily told him how much she adored weddings and how romantic they were, and then declared that she loved him. His horrified silence hadn’t gone down well, and he later he thanked his lucky stars that his father was a cabbie as he ushered her into the back of his dad’s mate Walt’s taxi. It hadn’t been his intention to make her leave, but she had insisted loudly and tearfully, despite his pleadings to keep her voice down, that she couldn’t possibly stay with him if he didn’t share her feelings, if they weren’t “on the same page” and “moving in the same direction”. He’d weathered her accusations and sobs while she packed her things and they waited, shivering in the cold night air and sobering up rapidly, with Nick wondering just how long this journey was going to take Walt and what it was going to cost him even at mates’ rates. He’d waved her off with undisguised relief and stumbled back into the hotel to find his father waiting for him at the bar with a whisky and a smirk.

Since then he’d been much more cautious in his dealings with women, vaguely wondering if he was ever going to meet anyone again for whom he felt more than a passing fondness. His current girlfriend, Sian - were they even serious enough that he considered her his girlfriend? - was the perfect answer, a fiercely independent fellow doctor with no desire for commitment and a schedule as busy as his. They met whenever they were both free and fancied it, for dinner or drinks and sex, and indeed sometimes just for the sex if life was particularly busy. Last week she’d turned up at his house at eleven after her late shift, exhausted and pissed off with the idiots in A&E. They’d barely spoken. She’d showered, dragged him to bed and demanded quite a forceful encounter, and been back out of the door by one o’clock, leaving him spent and satisfied, with a pulled muscle in his back and bruises on his neck that his housemates had ribbed him about for days and which had only just faded. The relationship, such as it was, suited him. He harboured no fears that Sian was going to suddenly decide herself in love with him.

He had occasionally wondered over the years if he would ever meet anyone like Ilsa again, ever feel that way again. He’d told himself that it had been young love, first love, that he was placing unrealistic expectations on himself that he would experience that level of passion for someone again. But surely there had to be more to feel. No one had come close to getting under his skin like she had.

The door swung open again, and Nick, who had only been half listening anyway as Will droned on, suddenly lost the thread of the conversation entirely as Ilsa entered the pub.

...

Ilsa could feel her nerves rising as they approached the pub and went in. _Stop it,_ she told herself. _You’re a happily engaged woman. You’re supposed to be thinking about dresses and flowers, not—_

“Ilsa!” called a familiar baritone, and she found herself swept into a bear hug, almost literally. Her old friend was huge, six foot three of Army-toned muscle. She heard Claire’s gasp behind her.

“Corm,” she said, squeezing him fiercely. “Oh, it’s been too long. How are you?”

“Good, thanks,” he said, breaking apart from her and grinning. His curly hair, which had been unruly and wild in his teens, was Army-regulation close-cropped, his face clean-shaven, his dark eyes piercing as ever. His slim hips were encased in dark jeans, his broad shoulders filling out a light blue shirt, his tanned, muscled forearms revealed by rolled-up sleeves. Even Ilsa, who only ever saw him as the boy next door, would have to admit he looked good.

Ilsa introduced him and Claire, reflecting as she did so that her flatmate was probably just his type, tall and blonde. She was so focused on watching, amused, as Claire went into full flirt mode, that she failed to notice the figure at her elbow until he spoke softly.

“Hi, Ilsa.”

Her heart lurched at the sound of his voice. She turned, pinning a smile on her face.

“Nick,” she said, and accepted a peck on the cheek from him. Her eyes scanned him quickly. His sandy hair had already started to recede a little, but his hazel eyes were as kind and twinkling as she remembered. He was, if anything, even more handsome, still tall and lithe and fit, a dark shirt accentuating his light tan. He smelled heartbreakingly familiar, and unexpected tears prickled at the back of her eyes. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she clutched her handbag to hide the tremor in her hands. _Get a grip,_ she told herself.

“How are you?” he was asking.

“Good, thanks,” she managed, her voice sounding mercifully steadier than it felt. “And you?”

He smiled, the smile that had always turned her heart over. “Yeah, good too,” he said. “What would you like to drink?”

They moved to the bar, making small talk about the weather, about Strike’s return. Relieved of his eyes upon her, Ilsa managed to pull herself together a little and breathe normally. She felt very self conscious about her engagement ring suddenly. The little diamond felt huge, ostentatious, too flashy. She found herself tucking her hand down at her side, out of view. Nick passed her her drink, a dry white wine, and as she thanked him shyly she was suddenly transported for a moment back to their very first meeting, in a slightly seedier London pub than this one, at Strike and Nick’s joint eighteenth birthday party. He’d bought her a Bacardi and Coke then. She wondered if he remembered.

He turned to her, his pint in his hand, and began to ask her about her family, about her job. Ilsa slowly relaxed as they made small talk, her heart calming down. He’d always been easy to talk to. He’d charmed her parents.

There was quite a gathering in the pub, of various friends Strike had made over the years who still lived in London. Glancing around, Ilsa recognised a couple, but no one she knew well, so she was glad she had brought Claire. _Not that I’m going to see much of her,_ she thought, amused, glancing over to where her flatmate was still chatting up a frankly very interested-looking Strike.

“Looks like Oggy’s hit it off with your flatmate already,” Nick said, and she laughed.

“I had a feeling she’d be his type,” she said.

“But does she realise he’s only just back on leave?” Nick said, grinning. “Probably been a while since he’s had any, ah, female company.”

Ilsa flushed a little, her hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Even a reference to sex was, with this man, enough to bring her blushes to the fore. He’d been her first, and for a long time her only, sexual partner. It had taken her a long time to feel that desire again for anyone else, and she had been vaguely disappointed with most encounters since. She’d told herself firmly that she was misremembering, that she’d put a rosy glow on the experiences she’d had with him as she discovered her sexuality.

Too late, she realised what she’d done. His eye caught the diamond on her third finger. Her heart lurched. She felt... guilty? _Ridiculous_ , she told herself. _You haven’t seen him in ages. He might be married for all you know._ Though she was pretty sure Strike would have told her if that was the case. She’d tried not to ask after Nick too often over the years, but occasionally the temptation had been too great.

He gave no outward reaction, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanour, in the atmosphere between them.

“You’re engaged?” he asked lightly. “Congratulations. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“He’s called Pete,” Ilsa managed. “It only happened recently, we haven’t set a date or anything.” _Stop making excuses._

“Well, congratulations. That’s great news,” he said warmly, and kissed her cheek again. Ilsa’s eyes fluttered closed, and she couldn’t stop herself gently inhaling the scent of him, familiar and new all at once, aftershave she didn’t recognise blended with his own scent that was so familiar and right. She stepped back hurriedly, dropping her eyes, knowing she was blushing and cursing herself for it. This wasn’t appropriate behaviour for someone newly engaged. To someone else.

As she was casting around for something, anything to say to change the subject, Strike and Claire joined them. Ilsa heaved an inward sigh of relief, and Strike introduced Nick and Claire. Ilsa saw Claire’s eyes widen just slightly, and closed her eyes briefly, praying that she wouldn’t say anything. But for once her bubbly, forward flatmate kept her mouth shut, shaking hands formally and making polite conversation. Ilsa felt less awkward in a group, and the four of them chatted for a while.

It wasn’t long, however, before Claire had managed to manoeuvre Ilsa into one of the booths at the back of the pub. They had been introduced to several more of Strike’s friends, and a Ilsa had drunk her drink a little too fast and was feeling slightly tipsy. Claire fetched a couple more glasses of wine and sat down opposite her friend.

She leaned forward. “Right, mrs,” she murmured. “What gives? Is that Nick? _The_ Nick, the one that got away? The doctor?”

“Shh,” Ilsa whispered, blushing. “Yes, that’s him.”

Claire looked over to where Nick and Strike stood at the bar, chatting, pints in their hands. As she watched, Strike put his down and pulled a packed of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

She turned her attention to Nick with a visible effort. “Good-looking guy,” she said. “Just your type. Tall, slim, fair, clever...” Her gaze swung back to Ilsa, accusing. “Oh, my God, he looks like Pete!” she cried.

Scarlet, Ilsa buried her face in her hands. “I know,” she muttered.

Claire roared with laughter, attracting looks from nearby tables.

“Claire, please,” Ilsa begged. “Keep your voice down. It’s not funny. I know they’re similar but I honestly never realised.”

Claire giggled. “That’s some impressive Freudian slip.”

Ilsa sighed. Her gaze slid to Nick, and darted away again as he glanced in their direction. She hurriedly buried her pink cheeks in her wine, not daring to look over again.

Claire rolled her eyes a little, not missing her friend’s fluster. She looked across herself, bold. Unlike Ilsa, she was actually trying to catch the eye of her target. She was pretty sure she’d made her interest clear, but there was no harm in a little flirting across the bar to make sure the message was hammered home.

...

Over at the bar, Strike clapped Nick on the shoulder.

“It’s really good to see you, mate,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“Good, yeah,” Nick said. “Still getting shunted from hospital to hospital as I train, but it’s all good experience. Mercifully not too much of a commute to my current one. I’m enjoying gastroenterology, just about coping with the hours. How about you? Where are they posting you next?”

“They’re not,” Strike said. “I’ve done five years, time for a step up. Going to start my officer training, work up to running my own cases. I’m heading down to Portsmouth to start once I get the call, should be in a few weeks. In the meantime I just need to keep fit and find some, ah, amusement,” and he cast a glance across to Ilsa and Claire.

Nick laughed. “Charlotte not on the scene any more, then?” he asked. His gaze slid across to the girls’ table as well, and he realised Ilsa was looking in his direction and hurriedly turned his focus back to Strike.

“Nah,” Strike said lightly, but Nick didn’t miss the brief flash of pain that passed across his old friend’s face. “Last I heard, she’d gone into rehab, but that was ages ago and she hasn’t been in touch. No, I’m free to look around.”

Nick laughed. “Well, I think you’re in there, mate,” he said, unable to resist another covert glance across at Claire and Ilsa. _God, she’s still beautiful._ “Got her number yet?”

“Give me time,” Strike said, grinning. “Rude just to ask for it straight out.” He was aware of a Claire’s eyes on him, and he flashed her a lazy grin, enjoying the way her smile curled back at him.

Nick rolled his eyes. “You’ll have it by the end of the evening, I’m sure,” he said. He took a sip of his pint, paused a moment. “I didn’t know Ilsa was engaged,” he went on, studiously casual.

Strike looked at him sharply, not fooled for a moment. “Nor did I,” he said. “Huh. I always assumed you guys would...” He trailed off.

“Yeah, well,” Nick said. “Guess I missed that boat. Plenty more fish in the sea, eh? I’m actually dating a fellow doctor.” And he proceeded to tell Strike about Sian, firmly ignoring the ache in his heart that didn’t belong there.

...

Ilsa sighed a little as she put her glass down. “I didn’t mean to end up with someone so like Nick. I’m sure Pete didn’t remind me of him when I met him.” Talking about Nick, she looked across again. He was leaning with one elbow on the bar, his mouth quirked with amusement as he listened to some story of Strike’s. _He’s so gorgeous,_ she thought despairingly. “I thought I was over him, I haven’t seen him for years. I couldn’t make the last get-together when Cormoran was on leave, and he couldn’t make any of the ones before.”

Giggles drying up, Claire looked at her shrewdly. “What are you saying, Ilsa?” she asked. “That you’re not over him?”

Ilsa shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I thought I was. But—” How to describe how her heart had lurched at the sound of his voice, how her stomach had lurched when he kissed her cheek, how he just smelled...right? Warm and masculine and— She shivered. She could pretend all she liked, but her body remembered.

Claire paused, looking her her appraisingly. “Right,” she said. “This isn’t a conversation for tonight, but I’m not done with you.”

She looked across to the bar again. “I can’t believe you don’t think Cormoran is sexy,” she said. “My God, I could eat him for breakfast. And lunch and tea, look at the size of him.”

Ilsa giggled. “That does seem to be the opinion of quite a few women,” she said. “I dunno, I’ve just only ever known him as Mum’s friend’s nephew. We used to play together when he was living with his aunt and uncle.”

“Ooh, I’ll happily play with him now,” Claire said, and Ilsa laughed, shaking her head.

“More wine,” she said, moving to stand, but Claire grabbed her glass. “I’ll go.”

Ilsa snorted. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with there being a gap at the bar right behind Corm, would it?”

Claire grinned. “It would have everything to do with that,” she said, and marched across to the bar. Ilsa watched, amused, as she squeezed into the gap that was really wide enough for her not to need to squeeze, the press of her hip against Strike’s leaving a good few inches of space the other side of her. Ilsa saw her look up and apologise, holding his gaze, saw him grin down at her, prolonging eye contact.

Ilsa glanced at Nick, and he was looking straight at her, no longer distracted by Strike. Their eyes met and Ilsa felt a physical jolt of electricity arc across the space between them that made her cheeks flush and her hands shake. It was too much, and she dropped her gaze, fumbling in her bag for her phone, her lipstick, anything to give her hands something to do and her eyes something to focus on.

...

Claire had moved, reluctantly, back to the booth, and Strike was continuing with the outrageous story from his latest mission that Nick was sure was heavily embellished. It couldn’t possibly all be true.

He was only half listening. The heat that had swept through him when his eyes met Ilsa’s had jolted him. The whole evening and the way he was feeling had taken him by surprise. He’d spent a lot of years convincing himself that what he’d felt for Ilsa was a combination of first love and teenage hormones. It was something of a shock to discover she had the same effect on him six years later. He risked another glance across, and she was absorbed in something Claire was saying. He allowed his gaze to linger. She looked stunning in a deep green blouse that accentuated her curves, her feet tucked under her chair, her trousers hugging her hips. She moved a little and he hurriedly pulled his gaze away again, not wanting to be caught staring.

“..and then this purple elephant went past on a bicycle—” Strike was saying.

Nick blinked. “What?”

His old friend snorted. “Oh, you are half listening, then.” Strike cast a meaningful glance across to Ilsa and back again.

Nick flushed, caught out. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I heard you up to the bit about the general’s daughter.”

Strike waggled his eyebrows. “Which bit?” He gave a lewd wink, and Nick laughed, shaking his head.

“What are you like?” he said fondly, chuckling, and forced himself to concentrate on the conversation, on catching up with his old mate and not on gazing longingly his ex-girlfriend.


	2. The Day After

Ilsa groaned when the alarm went off. She lay for a few minutes, wishing it was Saturday and trying to remember how many days away Saturday was, then stretched a little and yawned. She gave the slumbering form next to her a shove. “Your turn in the shower first,” she mumbled sleepily.

Pete grunted and rolled over. He wrapped an arm around her, warm and relaxed, a comforting, solid bulk. “Five more minutes,” he murmured into her hair.

Ilsa giggled and pushed him away. “You know once Claire gets in there she’ll be ages,” she said. “So you go, or I will.”

Grumbling good-naturedly, Pete dragged himself out of bed and put on Ilsa’s dressing gown. He disappeared in the direction of the bathroom. Ilsa pulled a jumper on over her pyjamas, found her glasses and went to start the coffee.

To her surprise, Claire was sat in the kitchen, already drinking a cup. The cafetière was full. “Help yourself,” Claire said.

“Not like you to be up this early,” Ilsa said, yawning, moving to the cupboards.

Claire grinned. “Let’s just say I had a restless night,” she said. “A certain Army hunk keeps invading my dreams. Going to be needing a lot of coffee today.”

Ilsa laughed. “I will never get the effect he has on women,” she said, fondly. “Has he texted yet?” She hunted in the cupboard for her favourite coffee mug.

“Not yet,” Claire said. “But he will. We had a bit of chemistry going on the other night.”

“I noticed,” Ilsa said drily, moving to the table to pour herself a cup of coffee while it was still hot.

Claire lowered her voice. “And so did you and Nick,” she said. “I saw the way he was looking at you after he’d had a few beers.”

“Shh,” Ilsa hissed, glancing over her shoulder down the hall.

“He’s in the shower, he won’t hear,” Claire said, dismissively. “Seriously, Ilsa. It’s obvious this unrequited love thing goes two ways.” She paused, thinking. “I guess that means it’s not unrequited. Huh.”

She suddenly looked sharply at her friend. “You said Pete was busy. Did you even invite him?”

Ilsa flushed, turning away to get the milk from the fridge. “He’d said something about seeing the guys,” she said. “So I, er, didn’t mention it.” Claire raised an eyebrow at her.

“Anyway, it’s not unrequited love!” Ilsa hurried on, pouring a splash of milk into her coffee. “He’s an ex, that’s all. I found him attractive then, I do now. No big deal. But I’m marrying Pete. I love him. There’ll be other guys I’m attracted to, but when you get married you say goodbye to all that.” She returned the milk to the fridge and sat down at the table, her hands cupped around her mug. She was keeping half an ear out for the shower. She needed to get to the office in good time today for an early briefing.

Claire looked at her shrewdly. “Okay,” she said. “Is the sex as good?”

Caught off guard, thinking about work, Ilsa flushed bright red. “What?”

“You heard,” Claire said, grinning. “Is the sex as good? With Pete as it was with Nick?”

“What— Well— What’s that got to do with anything?” Ilsa cast another anxious glance down the hall, but she could still hear running water.

“No, then.” Claire was still grinning.

“It’s... We were eighteen, we were horny, he was—” Ilsa flushed even redder. “He was my first,” she muttered. “Of course it would be special.”

“You know, that’s pretty much the opposite of how it usually works,” Claire said, laughing at her friend’s discomfort. “Sex is definitely something that gets better with practice.”

“Well,” Ilsa said, shaking her shoulders out and trying to get her colour under control. “You know, we...practised.” Her mind was pulled for a moment to her bedroom in Cornwall, to the pleasure they had discovered together, soft whispers and quiet ecstasy.

Claire roared with laughter again. “I bet you did,” she said wickedly.

Ilsa giggled. “Oh, stop,” she said. “Yes, the sex was good. I was really fond of him. But it was his idea to go our separate ways when we went to uni.” She tried not to think about how devastated she had been, how she had cried after he’d gone. How she had missed him like a physical ache for months.

“‘Really fond?’” Claire said. “Come off it, Ilsa. He’s the one you always talk about when you’re drunk. He’s the yardstick you’ve measured every other man against since. And you’ve got engaged to a guy who’s practically his clone.”

“They’re not _that_ alike,” Ilsa protested.

“Near enough, and don’t deflect. We’re lawyers, remember? We spot that kind of thing.”

“Well, it was a long time ago now, and I’m engaged,” Ilsa said firmly. “That ship has sailed.”

Claire opened her mouth to argue, but was distracted by a bleep from her phone. She snatched it up and flipped it open, and squealed with delight.

“Cormoran wants to know if I’m free tomorrow night,” she said.

“And are you?” Ilsa asked, relieved to no longer be the focus of the conversation. The shower had stopped. Her turn. She stood.

“I am now!” Claire said, grinning. “Come with me, Ilsa? Be my wingman.”

“You don’t need a wingman, he’s lovely,” Ilsa said. “But I’d love to spend more time with him, so yeah. I’ll bring Pete, I’d like them to meet.”

“It’s a date,” Claire cried, and said no more about Nick. Ilsa was glad to drop the subject, pushing Nick from her mind as she went to take her turn in the shower.

...

Nick sat in the cafeteria at the hospital, savouring a coffee. A break long enough to drink a whole coffee while it was still hot was a rare thing for a junior doctor. He’d texted Sian to find out when she was free this week, wondering if they’d be able to get together, but he’d had no answer. That wasn’t unusual when she was working in A&E. She’d probably left her phone in a locker somewhere and wouldn’t be able to check it until she finished her shift.

His mind drifted to Ilsa. He’d been utterly unprepared for how he’d felt when he saw her again. He’d dressed with care for the evening, refusing to acknowledge to himself that the dark shirt he knew complemented his colouring and the tremble in his fingers as he did up the buttons had anything to do with Strike casually mentioning that Ilsa and her flatmate would be at the pub. He’d missed most of Strike’s impromptu get-togethers over the years, never able to swap a shift at short notice, and the one he had made a couple of years ago, Ilsa hadn’t been at. He’d been unduly disappointed, but had given himself a stern talking-to and put her from his mind again.

He recalled the stab of shock he’d felt when Ilsa had strolled into the busy pub with her flatmate. She’d not spotted him in the press of people, her attention caught by Strike who had moved in swiftly to hug her. Nick had had a precious few seconds to absorb the sight of her without being observed himself, and he was struck by how stunning she was. His memories had not done her justice. She was still slim and curvy, her waist nipped in by fitted trousers, her blouse clinging to her breasts in a way that made his libido lurch just as it had the first time he had laid eyes on her seven years ago.

He’d moved across to greet her, drawn to be in her orbit, and her eyes when they met his were just as animated as he remembered, if a little guarded now. The smell of her when he had kissed her cheek, achingly familiar, had sent desire surging through him. He had briefly lost his composure, falling back on offering her a drink and making banal small talk while he tried to gather his scattered thoughts together and calm his jumping pulse. They had soon been chatting away while Oggy started to flirt with Ilsa’s flatmate, whose name Nick hadn’t immediately caught.

For a few blissful minutes while he bought her a drink, he and Ilsa had chatted easily, and he’d even dared to venture a teasing comment about Strike and Claire, taking the conversation from formal to jokey. And then he’d spotted the engagement ring.

Nick sighed and drained the last of his coffee. No point spending any more time thinking about it. She was promised to someone else. He’d had his chance and given it up six years ago, and she was gone now. The fierce disappointment he’d felt at the sight of that ring, the full stop to anything ever happening between the two of them again, and her blush that went with it that told him quite clearly that she was in love with another guy, was his own fault. He had only himself to blame, and no right to feel any longing towards her whatsoever.

He dropped his cup in the bin on his way to his next case and forced his mind back to the afternoon ahead.


	3. Regent’s Park

“Bloody hell, the Army keeps you fit,” Nick grumbled, out of breath, as they slowed to a walk. “I could always outrun you at school.”

Strike grunted, equally winded. He was quietly pleased to finally be able to keep up with Nick, who he had always considered a “proper” runner. Nick had run the London Marathon the previous year and was planning to enter again. It had been harder work than he cared to let on, matching Nick’s pace, but he had managed it for once. Boxing had always been more his thing.

The two friends had completed a lap of Regent’s Park, and strolled for a while, pondering running another. They paused at a coffee stand to buy bottles of water.

“So, Oggy, you texted Claire yet?” Nick asked as they carried on walking in the morning sun.

Strike grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re meeting in the Star again tomorrow night for a drink. Want to tag along?”

Nick looked at him sideways. “You don’t need me, I think you can manage,” he said wryly.

“Yeah, but there’s got to be a decent interlude of chat and getting to know her,” Strike said, still grinning wickedly. “I am a gentleman, after all.”

Nick snorted into his water.

“Seriously, though,” Strike said. “Come along and make an evening of it. I don’t want to look like I’m only after sex.”

“But you are,” Nick said, winking.

“Well, not _only_ ,” Strike said. “She seems like a nice girl, funny, smart. But yeah, it’s been a long campaign. I haven’t laid a finger on a woman in six months.” He grimaced. “So come along and keep me in check for a couple of hours.”

Nick laughed. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll see if Sian’s free. I think she’s not, though, she’s been on lates all week.”

Strike took a long draught of water. “How on earth do two junior doctors on the crazy shifts and hours that you guys do manage to date?” he asked.

“Infrequently,” Nick said, ruefully. “We’re lucky if we get together once a week. I’m fortunately on day shifts quite a lot on this posting, the rota gods have given the crappiest shifts to someone even more junior than me. But Sian’s in A&E a lot, regularly works all night at the moment, dealing with druggies and drunks.”

“I don’t know how you do it, big respect,” Strike said, raising his bottle.

“Back at you. At least we don’t get shot at for a living,” Nick replied.

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes. The sun was heading up through the trees now and it was promising to be a warm day. People bustled past on their way to work or strolled along with coffees.

“You going down to see Joan and Ted?” Nick asked.

“Yeah, hiring a car next week, I’ll go down for a few days and catch up with everyone,” Strike replied. “Was going to drag Lucy with me, but she’s due in a few weeks, doesn’t want to go too far from the hospital.”

“Ah, you’re going to be an uncle!” Nick said. “How cool. God, are we that age already that people are starting to have kids?”

“Yeah,” Strike said. “A girl I dated back in school has got two already, Joan says. Lucky escape!”

Nick laughed. “I don’t see you as the doting dad type,” he said. Strike grunted in agreement.

Thoughts of Cornwall had turned Nick’s mind in another direction, but he was determined not to bring it up. Strike, though, had other ideas.

“So, Ilsa,” he said, and Nick turned his head away, a reaction Strike didn’t miss.

“You haven’t completely missed the boat, you know,” he said. “Claire said they only got engaged a few weeks ago, nothing is planned.”

“Yeah, but she said yes,” Nick said quietly. “She’s in love with him. That’s that. Door closed.”

Strike drained his water and looked around for a bin. “I saw the way she was looking at you the other night,” he said. “I may not have seen her for a while, but I know Ilsa. I’m telling you, mate, that door’s not closed unless you want it to be.” He went to dispose of his empty bottle.

Nick walked on, thinking. He’d dreamed about her the previous night for the first time in years, strolling on a Cornish beach, her hair wild in the wind and her eyes twinkling up at him. It had been the spur for him texting Strike out of the blue and suggesting an early run, suddenly feeling the need to clear his head. Wisps of the dream still floated on the edge of his consciousness, stubbornly refusing to be altogether banished, a vague yearning pulling at his heart.

_Finishing it was the right thing to do,_ he told himself yet again. _You were too far apart for too long._

But it remained to this day the hardest thing he’d ever done. He remembered stumbling through his rehearsed speech, badly, trying not to see the devastation in her eyes as he tore down everything they’d built, determined to let her go without promises for the future that he might not be able to keep. He’d gone home the next day and cried like he hadn’t done since he was a little boy, and spent his last few days before university in a numb haze. He’d started his course the following week, and had filled the hole in his heart, in his soul, with work, ignoring the dreams that had plagued him that first year.

Gradually the pain had eased, but he’d never forgotten her. He’d heard snippets about her through Strike over the years, had always known that one day he’d bump into her again through their mutual contact. And now here she was, living not all that far from him, as it turned out, at a time and place in his life when he’d have been able to commit to her, to give her everything he’d longed to offer her six years ago, to give her his heart.

And she was marrying someone else.


	4. Back To The Pub

Ilsa and Claire went straight to the pub from work and ordered meals, chose a booth at the back of the room. Strike was joining them a little later and Pete had promised to follow on once he’d finished his case notes. He was being worked hard, almost to the point of hazing, by the partner he’d been assigned to, but was determined to prove his place in the firm.

The women chatted as they ate their meals, comparing notes on their work experience charges today. Their firm, large as it was, often took in kids at the end of their secondary school career for a day, assigning them to the junior lawyers and giving them a day of legal work to see if they’d like it as a career. This week’s bunch had come from a school up north somewhere.

“God, mine were boring,” Ilsa said, dipping a chip in her tartar sauce. “A guy and a girl, barely said anything, didn’t look like they even wanted to be there. They do only send the kids who’ve shown an interest in law, right?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Claire said. “I had one girl who never said a word, and one who asked a million questions and wrote down everything I said. God, she knew her stuff. Asked me things I had to go and look up to answer. Swot.”

Ilsa laughed. “Ah, we were that keen once,” she said. “You’re just old and jaded now.”

“I actually steered her away from law,” Claire mused, sipping her wine. “I know we’re not supposed to. But she was far more interested in how to go about understanding criminals than the process of using the law to convict them. I told her forensic psychology might be more her thing. Pretty girl, behind the geekiness. Gorgeous hair.”

“Oh, look, there’s Corm,” Ilsa said. “Oh, God, he’s brought Nick.”

She didn’t know why this possibility hadn’t occurred to her. And Pete was coming too. Panic rose in her. _Don’t be silly,_ she told herself. _Why shouldn’t your ex and your fiancé meet? We’re all adults_.

The men joined them, and Ilsa tried to ignore the fluttering in her heart. Nick looked even more handsome than he had the other night. Her hands trembled and she sat on them firmly.

“I’m going to the bar. Who wants what?” Strike asked. 

Claire jumped up out of her seat. “I’ll help,” she said eagerly, and Strike flashed a cheeky grin at her. They moved to the bar, chatting.

Nick looked at Ilsa. “Hello again,” he said, and she smiled, the smile that made his heart skip a beat. “Hi,” she said softly. “Haven’t seen you in years, and now twice in a week.”

Nick laughed. “Indeed,” he said. “How’s lawyering going? Here, shuffle over. I assume those two—” he nodded his head towards Strike and Claire leaning on the bar, elbows touching “—will want to sit next to each other.”

Ilsa snorted, trying to ignore the way her heart jumped as she slid along the seat to the wall and Nick sat next to her, his long, lean thigh so close to hers. “I would imagine so,” she agreed. “They’ll not be here long if Claire has her way.”

Nick laughed again. “I think Oggy was hoping to spend some time proving he can be a gentleman before dragging her off to his cave.”

Ilsa giggled, and he grinned at her, turning her stomach over. He was closer than he had been the other night, and she gazed into his warm hazel eyes. A flash of memory hit her - laughing together as they strolled late-night London streets, the amusement in his expression turning to love as he pulled her into his arms to kiss her - and her heart twisted with painful nostalgia. It was so long ago, but so clearly remembered. She turned her attention to the remainder of the glass of wine she’d ordered with dinner, and hoped Claire wouldn’t be gone too long.

Claire and Strike didn’t seem to be making any attempt to hurry. In fact, they didn’t look as though they had even ordered yet. As Nick chatted, though, Ilsa managed to relax a little. They’d always got on well, been able to fill whole evenings with chat and stories, and also to sit in quiet companionship. She tried not to think about how much she and Pete talked about work, sometimes, when she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She was uncertain how to sit - side by side, she was turned to look over her shoulder at him, but when she angled her body, leaning against the wall a little, her knee brushed his and she snatched it away with slightly too much force, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

Strike and Claire returned with the drinks and settled into the booth on the opposite side.

They got on well as a four, and conversation flowed. Claire became steadily more flirtatious with Strike as each Bacardi and Coke went down, and soon the two of them were engrossed in one another, leaving Ilsa and Nick chatting and catching up. A little more relaxed with two Bacardis in her stomach, it was only after a couple of hours that Ilsa suddenly realised how much time had passed and that Pete hadn’t turned up.

She excused herself to the ladies - Nick stood politely to let her out - and checked her phone. Pete had texted ages ago to say he had a migraine and to send his apologies but he was going home to bed. She texted back guiltily to say she was sorry she’d missed his message and she hoped he’d feel better soon, promising to ring him in the morning.

On her way back to the table she saw Nick at the bar and he called her over. She went to join him.

“I came to get another round,” Nick said, grinning, “but I’m not sure whether to bother for those two.” He nodded his head back towards the booth, and Ilsa saw that Strike and Claire were literally wrapped in one another now, snogging. Strike’s arm along the back of the bench was curling around Claire’s shoulders, and her hand was on his thigh.

Ilsa giggled. “Yeah, I don’t think they’re going to be here much longer,” she said. “Guess we’d better stay at the bar.”

Nick nodded and ordered two drinks. Ilsa was suddenly very aware that they were about to be left alone together. Sure enough, while Nick was still paying for the drinks, Claire appeared at her elbow, her hair dishevelled and her lipstick smudged.

“We’re going back to Cormoran’s,” she said, grinning. “Don’t wait up. You good?”

Ilsa laughed. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be gentle with him!” she called after her, as Claire was already heading off towards where Strike was holding the door open.

“Hah!” Claire called back over her shoulder. Nick raised his pint to Strike across the bar, and got a cheeky wave in return as the pair went out the door.

There was a moment that was almost awkward, and then Ilsa asked after Nick’s family, and suddenly they were chatting again. They drifted back to the booth and conversation flowed easily.

“You know,” Nick said, “I’m thinking, if Oggy’s going to be around for a few months, I might organise a do in the autumn, get the London and Cornwall gangs together. Joint birthday thing, maybe, just need an excuse. What do you think?”

Ilsa nodded. “Good idea,” she said. “I can round up the Cornwall gang. When were you thinking?”

Nick shrugged. “Well, I need months of notice to get a weekend off, and I think it’s best left till after the summer anyway, people will be away. Maybe October, before the Christmas rush starts?”

Ilsa nodded. “Sounds perfect.”

“You’ll come, right?” he urged. “Bring your fiancé.”

“I’d like that,” Ilsa said softly. He seemed quite relaxed about her being engaged. _There you go,_ she told herself. _There’s nothing still between you, forget about it._ She couldn’t help thinking, however, of the joint Nick and Strike birthday party seven years ago, when she and a Nick had first met. She’d been so taken with him, attracted to him from the moment she laid eyes on him, shyly delighted that he seemed to fancy her too. How young we were, she thought.

Nick nodded. “I’ll look at the work rota tomorrow and try and guess when might be a likely weekend I could get,” he said. “And text you? Shall we swap numbers?”

Ilsa’s heart fluttered. “Sure,” she said lightly. She pulled her phone from her bag and tapped though the menus for the contacts list. How strange it was to add his number, after all these years. She still had his parents’ number in Hackney in an old address book, but there hadn’t been mobiles when she and Nick were first dating. They’d had to rely on landlines and letters. She’d kept all those, too, in a box that must still be somewhere in her parents’ attic - a box she didn’t want in her flat but could never bear to throw away. It held letters, concert tickets, the earrings he’d given her their first Christmas and the bracelet for her birthday. She hadn’t thought about that box in years, and wondered if her mum still had it.

She realised she’d stopped scrolling, and hurriedly carried on.

Nick reeled off his number, wondering what had made her pause for so long, as though her mind had drifted off. He wondered if she was as dragged back into the past this evening as he was, little stabs of memory assailing him at odd moments. A shy sideways glance from her earlier had recalled the night they’d met, how shy yet attentive she’d been, hanging on his every word. And focusing on her hands now as she typed his number into her phone, he had a sudden vivid memory of those hands on his body, gently exploring— He cleared his throat and buried his face in his pint, glad her focus was on her phone and not him.

Ilsa tapped out a quick text that just said “Hi!” and sent it, and turned to him with a grin. “There you are, now you have mine too.” Nick’s phone duly bleeped in his pocket.

“Great,” he said, forcing himself to some semblance of composure. “I’ll let you know.”

Ilsa nodded. He was going to text her. That shouldn’t have pleased her as much as it did. She cast around for a topic of conversation, and settled on asking him about the specifics of his job, how many hours he had to do and so on.

She’d only intended to stay for this one more drink, but now that the initial awkwardness of being left alone together had passed, they got on as well as they always had, and she found herself after a while going to the bar for another round, eager to prolong their chat. _I’d forgotten how funny he is,_ she thought, wiping her eyes at yet another silly joke. They just got each other’s sense of humour.

The bell rang for time, and Nick looked up, surprised. “Wow, is it that time already?” He’d been so absorbed in her, he hadn’t realised how much time had passed. He hadn’t intended to stay so long. They stood, and he held her jacket for her to slide her arms into. His fingers on the collar brushed the back of her neck just slightly as he settled the coat into position, and suddenly he remembered how soft the nape of her neck was. He pulled his hand away hurriedly, sure it was just wishful thinking on his part that she had shivered a little.

They left the pub, stepping out into the cool evening air. “Which way?” Nick asked. “I’ll walk you home.”

Ilsa shook her head. “Oh, I’m fine, don’t worry,” she said.

“I can’t leave you to walk alone, Claire would be cross. And rightly so,” he said, smiling. A little reluctant at first, Ilsa nodded. She felt unsettled suddenly, by how close she had felt to him tonight, how easy they had been together, by the memories that kept ambushing her, by how his accidental touch on her neck had almost made her jump, goosebumps washing down her arms. But she gradually relaxed again as they walked and chatted. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach for a moment as they neared her flat, but he was the perfect gentleman, thanking her for a nice evening and leaving her on her doorstep with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Ilsa couldn’t work out whether she was relieved or disappointed. Shaking her head at herself, she closed the door behind her, resisting the urge to watch him walk away up the street with that long, loping stride that was so familiar to her. Everything about him, every movement, every gesture, brought back memories.

Making herself a herbal tea to take to bed, Ilsa suddenly realised that a subtle change had taken place tonight. She and Nick had exchanged numbers. He was planning an event that linked their two circles. Like it or not, he was back in her life, albeit on the margins.

Like it or not? Did she like it? The man she had chatted to this evening, cosy in a booth or leaning casually on the bar, was the same handsome, lithe guy she’d fallen for six years ago. She was still hugely attracted to him, a feeling she could acknowledge now she was buoyed up by a little alcohol. But he was also the same guy who had turned on a sixpence from love to distance, who had abruptly finished their relationship and never contacted her again, leaving her devastated, uncomprehending, so deeply wounded that she had feared her heart would never recover. He was still gorgeous, but he was also dangerous. It would be so easy to fall for him again and get hurt again.

She sighed as she dropped the teabag into the bin. _You’re over-analysing,_ she told herself. _He might have a girlfriend for all you know._

And she had Pete, steady, dependable Pete. She turned her thoughts deliberately to her fiancé, feeling somewhat guilty at how little he’d occupied her thoughts this evening. He wasn’t well. She resolved as she carried her mug through to her bedroom to text him first thing in the morning to tell him she was thinking of him and she hoped his head was better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’d like to read about what Strike and Claire got up to, that fic can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978015)...


	5. Girly Gossip

Ilsa slept in on Saturday, her flat quiet and empty. She went to fetch groceries and a newspaper from the local shop, came back and made a pot of coffee, sat to read the paper at the kitchen table. The morning sun streamed in through the window over the sink.

It was almost lunchtime when she heard Claire’s key in the door and her flatmate stumbled in, still in last night’s clothes, yawning.

Ilsa poured her a coffee and passed it across. Claire dropped onto the stool opposite, wincing a little, and Ilsa giggled. “Well?” she said. “How was it?”

Claire laughed, wrapping her hands around the very welcome coffee. Post hook-up discussions had always been a part of their friendship. But lately it was only ever Claire who had gossip to impart.

“Well, he’s been on an Army base with no women for six months,” she began, with a cheeky wink. “So it was pretty explosive the first time. I’ve got bite marks you don’t even want to know about.”

Ilsa laughed, trying not to imagine. It felt vaguely like trying to picture her brother in bed.

“But the second, God, the man’s got stamina,” Claire went on, grinning roguishly. “I can hardly walk. And the things he can do with his tongue...”

“Ew, ew, ew, stop it, he’s my friend!” cried Ilsa, putting her hands over her ears.

“You don’t want to hear about the third time, then?” Claire teased, and Ilsa squeaked a little with shock and shook her head. “Don’t tell me any more,” she begged. “You’re ruining my image of the boy next door. We used to play in the sandpit when we were little.”

Claire cackled wickedly. “Well, he’s not little any more!” she said, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, God, stop, please,” Ilsa said, still giggling. “I really don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, you do, or you wouldn’t have asked,” Claire said, winking. “Anyway, enough about Cormoran,” she went on. “How was Nick?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Just fine. We chatted, he walked me home, end of.”

Claire said nothing, just raised an eyebrow. She took a gulp of coffee and waited.

“What?” Ilsa said. “I’m engaged, remember?”

“Okay, enough about what happened, which was clearly nothing,” Claire said. “What did you feel?”

“It was nice,” Ilsa said. “The time just vanished. I forgot how funny he is. It was...lovely.”

There was a small pause.

“What’s it like, seeing him again?” Claire asked.

Ilsa looked down at her mug, running her finger around the curve of the handle. Claire had a knack for asking the very questions she was trying not to think about. She sighed.

“It’s...weird,” she said at last. “I knew I’d likely see him again at some point, with us both being good friends of Cormoran’s. I’m surprised it’s taken this long. I guess he was away at uni for years, and then immersed in hospital rotations with awful hours. Cormoran tends to appear at odd times of year, without much notice.”

She paused. Claire waited.

“It’s nice, seeing him,” Ilsa said slowly. “But it also kind of hurts. It reminds me how cut up I was when he dumped me. I’d not seen him since. It’s ages ago, but...it brings it all back, I guess. But it’s also long enough ago that we seem to be able to get along and chat, so that’s weird, but also nice.” She sighed.

“Cormoran says he’s seeing someone from work, another doctor,” Claire said, carefully casual.

Ilsa ignored a small stab of— What? _Not jealousy. You have absolutely no right to feel that. It’s none of your business who he sees, you’re engaged_. Unable to think of anything to say to that, she shrugged.

“Do you still fancy him?” Claire asked, watching her closely. As she expected, Ilsa flushed.

“A bit,” she admitted. “But, you know, he is my type. Always was. You said yourself Pete is like him. Which I truly didn’t realise until I saw Nick again.”

Ilsa paused again. Claire said nothing.

“But none of that matters, anyway, because I have Pete now,” Ilsa said firmly.

Claire eyed her shrewdly and decided to change the subject. “Shame Pete couldn’t make it last night,” she said. “Want to try again later? I told Cormoran I was free tonight.”

“Yeah, he’s feeling better today so I’ll see if he wants to meet up,” Ilsa said.

Claire nodded. “Well, I’m going to shower and go to bed,” she said. “I’ve only had about three hours’ sleep. Wake me up when it’s pub time again.”

Ilsa laughed and nodded, and turned back to the newspaper.

...

Nick ran alone that morning, assuming Strike would be otherwise engaged after leaving the pub with Claire the previous evening. He appreciated the time to think as he ran steadily along the riverbank, dodging tourists and wishing he’d got up a little earlier when it would have been quieter.

He thought about Ilsa, and wondered if she thought about him. Their connection when they had first met seven years ago had been profound, and he could still feel its pull all these years later. It didn’t seem possible that she could be unaffected by him. But she had given no indication the previous evening that she saw him as anything other than an old acquaintance. He wondered if he would bump into her again through Strike.

_You’ve got her number,_ a little voice in his head whispered. _And she’s got yours. And you’ve got an excuse to text her._

He sighed and sped up a little, pushing himself, as though he could outrun his feelings, enjoying the burn in his lungs and the ache in his legs.

He wondered if Strike would be seeing Claire again, if that might be a way that he and Ilsa could see one another again innocently.

_You have to stop this,_ he told himself, slowing now to a walk, breathing hard. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked it. A message from Sian, asking if he was free that evening. Perfect distraction from his overactive mind. He couldn’t afford to slide back into allowing his every waking thought to be Ilsa as he had seven years ago. She was getting married. He needed to focus on what he did have, not what he didn’t.

He tapped out a reply to Sian, suggesting a restaurant for dinner.


	6. The Nick/Pete Equivalency

Nick strolled down the street towards the restaurant where he and Sian were meeting for dinner. He was in a cheerful mood. A run this morning, a relatively quiet shift - they did happen occasionally - and now the prospect of a hearty dinner and some good sex. This was what life in your twenties should be about, he told himself. Plenty of work and plenty of play.

His phone bleeped in his pocket, and he pulled it out and paused, stepping aside from the flow of people to read the text. It was from Sian, apologising and saying she was stuck at work and would be late, but to go ahead and eat without him. “I’ll skip dinner and see you for afters,” she’d put, along with a winking emoji that left no doubt as to her meaning.

He grinned, reading the text, then looked up. He hovered on the street a moment, undecided as to what do to. He was disinclined to go and sit in a restaurant alone. He could go somewhere for a pint, get fish and chips on the way back home and wait for her.

He rang the restaurant to cancel the booking, idly wondering where to go, what to do with his unexpectedly free evening. Even as he was apologising to the bookings manager, he found himself making his way towards the pub in Soho near Ilsa and Claire’s flat where Strike had organised the get-together. He tried not to think too hard about his motives as he approached it, his heart jumping. _It’s just nearest,_ he told himself even as he passed another pub. _And she won’t be there, anyway._

...

It warmed Ilsa’s heart to see her old friend shake hands with her fiancé. She’d been looking forward to them meeting, and she was keen to get Strike’s opinion - not that it mattered, she told herself. But she wanted them to get along, and they seemed to. A round of drinks bought, the four of them settled themselves at a table in the pub and looked at the menu. Claire, who had professed herself starving when Ilsa woke her from her extended nap, declared her intention to have anything that was served with chips.

It also gave Ilsa a feeling of satisfaction to see Claire and Strike so relaxed in one another’s company. They had clearly found common ground quickly, neither of them seeking more from whatever was occurring between them than the other. Ilsa had known they’d be well suited in more ways than just mutual attraction - she’d been pretty sure they’d fancy one another, but she also knew that both were quite pragmatic about relationships. Claire wouldn’t be seeking to tie him down at all, and Strike’s itinerant life had allowed him to resist any and all attempts by women to domesticate him. Even Charlotte, the long-time, on-off girlfriend, hadn’t managed to persuade him to move in with her at any point.

Conversation between the four flowed easily, and Ilsa was delighted to see her fiancé and her old friend getting along so well. But she couldn’t help but compare this evening, all of a sudden, with last night. She couldn’t recall Pete ever making her laugh, really belly laugh, like Nick had always done, and had done again so easily last night. And she didn’t feel as...alive, on edge.

 _Pete is familiar, comfortable,_ she thought, watching her fiancé fondly as he and Claire described to Strike the law firm the three of them worked at. _We just know each other well._ She quashed the tiny voice reminding her that Pete had never made her feel the way she had last night. _He’s also never hurt me like Nick did, she thought, and never would._

Presently Pete went to the bar to fetch more drinks, and Ilsa turned to Strike. “What do you think?” she asked.

“Nice guy,” Strike smiled at her, and she knew Pete had his approval. She beamed.

“He seems kind of familiar, though,” Strike added, frowning a little, and Claire spluttered into her Bacardi and Coke. Ilsa glared at her.

Strike looked from one to the other. “What am I missing?” he asked, amused.

“He is familiar,” Claire said, _sotto voce_. “He’s Nick.”

Strike’s eyes widened and he looked towards where Pete was standing at the bar. “Oh, my God, he is,” he said, grinning. Ilsa was scarlet again. Strike turned back to her and saw her blushes.

“Was that a conscious thing?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“No!” Ilsa said, crossly. “I didn’t even notice it until I saw Nick again.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You know, we all have a type,” she said, a little defensively. “I knew you’d fancy Claire, for instance, and she you. I just like tall blond guys, that’s all.”

“It’s a bit more than that, though,” Claire said, grinning. “Here, look, he’s trying to carry four drinks.” She jumped up and went to help Pete. A slight air of awkwardness hung over the table. Strike watched Ilsa’s discomfort, amused.

“They’re not all that similar,” Ilsa insisted. She wondered why she felt so defensive. Strike was still looking at her appraisingly.

“Well, no,” he agreed. “He’s not as funny, or as quick. He’s a kind of Nick-lite.”

Ilsa scowled, disquieted by how true that sounded, especially with regard to her feelings toward her fiancé recently. Until a few days ago she’d been completely sure she was in love. She was cross with her old friend all of a sudden, and with her flatmate, for their assumptions, for finding it funny, for being borderline rude about her fiancé. _They don’t know Pete like I do,_ she thought. She took another sip of her drink.

...

Nick knew the moment he walked into the pub that he’d made the wrong decision. He’d spotted Strike and Ilsa through the window, chatting at a table, and his heart had leapt and his steps had quickened. But as he shouldered his way in through the door, he grasped the full situation. Making making their way towards the table with a round of drinks were Claire and a tall man who could only be Ilsa’s fiancé. Nick paused, frozen, thoughts of escape on his mind, but Strike glanced up and saw him and called him over. Before he knew it, he was approaching the table and Strike was standing, shaking his hand and making introductions.

Operating on autopilot, Nick allowed himself to be introduced to Pete (as an old school friend of Strike’s; Nick was deeply thankful for his tact). The two shook hands, and Nick forced himself to swallow his instant and arbitrary dislike of the smartly-suited lawyer. The other man seemed affable enough, which was annoying in itself. Nick kept the handshake brief and sat down on the chair Strike drew up for him, all the while managing to not quite look at Ilsa. Pete slid into the chair on the other side of her and passed drinks across, while Strike, ignoring Nick’s protests, went to the bar to fetch him a pint. A short, awkward silence descended over the table. Ilsa examined her thumbnail.

“So, Nick, what brings you to our neck of the woods?” Claire asked, and Nick chose not to see the knowing look in her eyes.

“I was on my way to meet Sian for dinner, but she’s been caught up at work,” he replied, carefully not noticing how close the handsome young lawyer sat to Ilsa, his thigh touching hers, his arm slung along the back of her chair. The casual intimacy between them caused a fierce stab of jealously to arc through him.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Claire replied.

Nick shrugged. “I’ll see her later,” he said. “She’ll swing by after work. Us doctors are used to keeping crappy hours.” He grinned at her, glad he had someone other than Ilsa and Pete to talk to, wishing Strike would hurry up, wishing he had never even walked in the door.

“What area of medicine are you in?” Pete asked, and Nick was forced to turn to speak to them or appear rude.

“Gastroenterology,” he replied. “I’m a senior house officer.”

Pete nodded. “Medicine’s not my forte, but I’ve got a lot of respect for anyone who can stomach it, no pun intended,” he said, grinning. “I couldn’t do it at all.”

“You get desensitised pretty early on in the process,” Nick said. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

To his relief, Strike returned with his pint. “Cheers,” Nick said as Strike set the glass on the table in front of him and pulled up his chair.

“No Sian tonight?” he asked. “I have yet to meet this elusive girlfriend.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw the little look exchanged between Ilsa and Pete, and the way the other man smiled gently at her.

 _He’s her fiancé._ _He has every right._ But the primal part of him that Ilsa always awoke, the part that wanted to possess and own, the part that he tried so very hard to quash, shouted _mine_. Hurt more deeply than he had been expecting, than he had a right to be, he found himself winking and explaining that Sian would be meeting him back at his house later after her shift, and so he’d just popped in on the off chance for a drink with his old friends. Strike gave him a knowing grin and clapped him on the back.

Ilsa, still stung at Strike’s dismissal of Pete and irritated at Claire’s ongoing amusement, was suddenly feeling protective towards her fiancé as well as totally thrown off balance by the unexpected appearance of Nick. What if Strike and Claire were making side-by-side comparisons and finding Pete lacking? And she certainly didn’t want to hear Nick joke about what sounded like a very casual relationship with his girlfriend. Perhaps that was what he was like these days, no longer interested in committed relationships. Not like Pete, who was all in. His grandmother’s engagement ring, a family heirloom, sat snugly on her third finger. He couldn’t have been more committed to her. Affection filled her heart. He was good for her, steady and hard-working, just what she was looking for, what she needed.

So why did Nick still have such a hold over her, and why couldn’t she break it? _It was just unfinished business,_ she told herself. _And it’s finished now, look. He’s quite happy with his...fuck buddy, and you have someone who does want to settle down. It’s all worked out for the best._

But his very presence was distracting. She remembered how well they’d got along the other night, how he’d made her laugh, how he’d made her feel alive and desirable. She hadn’t felt like that since she was eighteen. He and Strike were getting along as well as always, and she suddenly remembered how right it had felt, the three of them hanging out.

Afraid that she might give herself away and somehow reveal how much her equilibrium was disturbed by the presence of her old flame, she overcompensated, sliding closer to Pete, laying a hand on his thigh, wanting the reassurance of their comfortable connection that was so much simpler and easier to understand than the storm of conflicting feelings Nick unleashed within her. Pete grinned down at her fondly, his kindly blue eyes giving her the security she craved.

The conversation moved on, a little awkward but slowly smoothing as Claire chatted away. Nick, unable to bear seeing Ilsa with her hand on Pete’s leg, smiling softly up at him, focussed his attention on Strike and Claire.

Ilsa couldn’t wait to leave now. She struggled to join the conversation, her mind detached, thoughts twisting around one another. Every fibre of her was aware of Nick, and every move she made and word she uttered seemed heightened, overthought. A tension headache began to nag at her from the effort of trying to appear normal, like everything was just fine and she wasn’t somehow sat in a pub between the man she was engaged to and loved, and the man her treacherous body and heart longed for despite how he’d hurt her.

As soon as the drinks were finished, she pleaded a headache and suggested she and Pete left. They were going back to her flat as it was nearer than the house Pete shared with fellow lawyers. Pete agreed and stood and they said their good nights.

“I’ll get going too,” Nick said, relieved to have an excuse to bring this hideously awkward encounter to an end and not keen to stay and play gooseberry to Strike and Claire. He followed Ilsa and Pete to the door, his jaw clenching as Pete idly took Ilsa’s hand and she tangled her fingers into his just as she had once done with him. Suddenly he could remember with aching clarity exactly what it felt like to hold her hand, to have her walk next to him.

He wasn’t keen to linger. They said swift goodbyes at the pub door, Nick stepping well back lest there was any suggestion of hugs or polite kisses. He bade the couple good night and turned away, marching briskly up the street, determined not to look back.

Ilsa breathed a quiet, shuddering sigh of relief as she and Pete walked in the other direction. She hoped Claire would go back to Strike’s for another night. She didn’t want to see either of them again this evening.


	7. Separate Thoughts

“Hey—” Sian said softly, her hands moving to Nick’s hips to still him. He raised his head and looked down at her, slowing his rhythm, finally coming to a halt.

“What’s up?” He moved to withdraw but she held him in place.

“No, I don’t want to stop,” she murmured. “I just wondered...are you okay?”

He smiled gently and kissed her. “Yeah, why?”

“You seem a bit...distracted.”

A stab of guilt pierced him. He was distracted. He was trying very hard to stay in the moment and not think about Ilsa, and he wasn’t entirely succeeding. Maybe she and Pete, right at this very moment, were—

“Sorry,” he muttered, his gaze sliding from her clear blue eyes, so light they were almost translucent. “Just got a few things on my mind.”

“We don’t have to—”

He grinned and flexed his hips to hers, pushing a little deeper, making her arch her back and groan. “It’s not going anywhere. I think we should finish what we started.”

She grinned back up at him. “In that case, how about you lie back and think of England and I’ll see if I can distract you from whatever’s distracting you.” She pushed on his shoulders, and he withdrew and flopped down next to her, turning onto his back. Sian smoothly rolled over him, pushing herself up to straddle him, sliding easily back into place with a rock of her hips that made him gasp and shudder. They’d been dating casually for some months now, and she had always been vocal about what she wanted and confident in what she offered. Their sex life was good, if a little infrequent due to incompatible shifts, and Nick had been entirely satisfied with it until he’d met Ilsa again. Now suddenly he could remember how good things had been with her, things she was now sharing with someone else—

 _Stop it,_ he chastised himself. He didn’t want to be the guy who fantasised about another woman in bed. He forced Ilsa from his mind as Sian started to rock in earnest and pleasure began to build at the base of his spine. His hands splayed across her hips, circled her waist, caressed her soft skin. Her breasts, high and small, swayed a little with their rhythm. She was taller and slimmer than Ilsa, less curvy but with her own slender beauty.

 _Stop comparing!_ Nick closed his eyes and let his head drop back, allowing the pleasure to take over. Groaning now, Sian bent over him, her hands tightening on his shoulders and her cheek against his. Her rhythm stuttered and he knew she was getting close. He flexed his hips beneath her in the way he knew she liked, and felt her tense and then loosen, felt the pulse of her around him, enjoyed her long, low groan of release in his ear.

She slowed, rocking gently, getting her breath back, and then sat up a little, grinning down at him, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

“Right, prepare to be distracted,” she murmured, and began to move against him with purpose again, sliding forward and back in the way she knew he enjoyed.

Nick closed his eyes again, focusing on the pleasure of her movements, letting the feeling build. Sian rolled her hips, knowing what drove him over the edge, and he went with the momentum, anticipation mounting.

But somehow he seemed to get stuck on a plateau, so near and yet so far. Enjoying it, but the whispering of his distracted mind stopping him tipping over the edge, preventing him from truly letting go. Sian leaned down again and buried her face in his neck, sucking on the soft place below his ear that was normally his undoing, running her mouth and tongue across his skin and then nipping at him gently with her teeth. Sparks shuddered though him, but it still wasn’t enough.

A small flicker of panic in the back of his mind. He had never not been able to get the job done, not been able to finish. He could feel Sian’s uncertainty as the minutes ticked by, and he knew if he overthought things much more, this evening was going to end in awkwardness and embarrassment.

He capitulated and allowed his clenched mind to relax, allowed Ilsa in. Allowed himself to imagine for a moment that it was her above and around him. Her mouth on his neck. Her hands clenched around his shoulders.

His back arched as he came, fierce pleasure pulsing through him until finally, shuddering, he stilled. Humming with satisfaction, Sian slid off him and lay next to him, her leg slung casually across him, the sweat from their exertions mingling. She grinned at him smugly.

“Knew I could distract you.”

Nick laughed a little. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her honest, clear gaze. He allowed his eyes to drift closed, and hoped that she thought his withdrawal was due to satiation and tiredness rather than guilt. Guilt, and a sudden, aching loneliness despite having a beautiful, sexy, funny woman in his bed and in his arms.

...

Ilsa lay in her bed and stared at the ceiling. Pete snored next to her, a warm, comforting bulk in the bed.

She rolled onto her side and looked at him as he slept. He wasn’t that much like Nick really, much as her friends teased her. The same height and hair colour, the odd mannerism. But he was heavier set than Nick, in body and in soul, steadier, calmer. _More boring,_ her treacherous mind whispered, but she ignored it. He was exactly what she needed— no, _wanted_. Her parents liked him. Her friends liked him. _She_ liked him.

She’d known from their first date that he wasn’t like a lot of the other idiots she’d dated since Nick. He was courteous and polite, held doors for people and was pleasant to waiters, and properly listened to her rather than merely looking like he was thinking of what he was going to say next, like so many men did. They’d dated for two months before they went to bed together, unheard of in this day and age, but he’d seemed in no hurry on that front either. She’d been surprised, actually, when he’d proposed, assuming he’d be happy to plod along like they were for some time. But she’d said yes without thinking about it too hard. He made her feel safe, protected, comfortable. She could build a good life with this man.

And yet. And yet.

He’d been solicitous this evening, fetching her a glass of water and some paracetamol for her headache, gently massaging her neck to ease the tension there. His hands had lingered, and although she wasn’t particularly in the mood with so many tangled thoughts in her head, she’d allowed the moment to slide into sex. He was slow and considerate as always, his hands gentle on her body. She had enjoyed it, as she always did, but there weren’t exactly fireworks. Had there ever been? She seemed to recall regular orgasms at the start of their relationship, but these days that only happened for her maybe half the time. They’d slid into a rut - some kissing, a little foreplay, missionary position, sleep.

Gazing at him now as he slept, remembering her time with Nick, Ilsa forced herself to acknowledge how often she had sex with Pete because she was fond of him and wanted to connect, wanted to be in his arms and feel close to him, rather than because she actually wanted him. She did enjoy it - she knew she could never submit under duress - but if she was honest, sometimes she just wanted to feel wanted, wanted to know she was giving him pleasure, to feel loved.

She sighed a little. Wasn’t that just long-term relationships, though? She and Pete had been together over two years now. The fireworks didn’t last, everyone knew that. She and Nick had only dated for nine months, and spent a lot of that apart. It had kept their passion going artificially, she told herself. If they’d stayed together for years, lived together, wouldn’t it inevitably have ended up this way too?

She closed her eyes and resolved to try to sleep, to quiet her busy mind. Sunday tomorrow, one of her favourite times of the week, lazing around with her fiancé with coffee and the Sunday papers. It was a routine they would carry forward into their marriage, familiar and comfortable.


	8. A Walk

Nick lay back on his bed in his room in the house he shared with three other doctors, and sighed.

He’d been restless all day. He’d been for a run before work. Focused his energies on his shift. Grabbed a bite to eat on the way home. He should just kick back, watch some telly and turn in, but he couldn’t settle. He’d forced himself to at least lie down, to stop pacing his room.

His phone lay in his hand. He drew it up to look at it, stared at the blank text message he’d opened, sighed again and let his arm flop back down.

_Just text her._

But he didn’t want to text Sian. He knew he should. No messages had been exchanged between them since the other night. He’d never felt awkward around her before, but suddenly he did. He felt vaguely guilty and disloyal for thinking about someone else in bed.

His mind slid away from her again. It wasn’t Sian he wanted to text. It wasn’t Sian he wanted to see.

He wondered what Ilsa was doing. Probably something cosy and domestic with her fiancé. With a growl of frustration, he jumped up and paced around the room again. He tried to analyse himself. Why was she suddenly obsessing his thoughts again? Was it just because he had now met the fiancé, because her engagement, which had seemed abstract, was suddenly very real? _Pathetic_.

Or was it simply because he’d seen her three times in quick succession after six years of absence, and it was bringing back all the memories he’d worked so hard to erase? Maybe that was all it was. In fact, maybe seeing her more would help him to exorcise his feelings for her.

He huffed a laugh at himself. _Any excuse._ Maybe he should go for another run.

He sat back down and looked at the blank screen, mocking him.

Why not text her? Maybe if he saw her again, he might be able to get her out of his head. She was creeping back in, slowly, invading all his thoughts.

He just wanted to see her again.

Slowly, he began to type. He deleted his first three attempts, typing, sighing, deleting.

 ~~ **Would you like to meet up sometime?**~~ Too vague.

 ~~ **I can’t stop thinking about you.**~~ Too creepy.

 ~~ **Hey, I’m free if you fancy meeting up?**~~ Too casual.

Why not just try the truth? Sort of.

**You busy? Fancy a pint and no-one’s about, if you’re free?**

He’d over-analysed himself so much, he couldn’t even tell if that sounded reasonable. He pressed send before he could think about it too hard, and then dropped his phone onto the bed next to him, falling back to lie and stare at the ceiling in an agony of dread and hope, waiting next to his silent phone.

She was probably out for dinner or something. With him. Probably not thinking about her ex at all. Why on earth had he texted? What would she think? Why wasn’t it possible to retract text messages?

 _Ping_.

Nick knocked his phone onto the floor in his frantic grab at it. Swearing, he scrabbled around on the floor next to the bed until he found it and rolled back onto his back, staring up at it, his heart hammering. A voice in the back of his head going, _look at yourself. You’re behaving like a teenager. Pathetic._

It was Ilsa. **Sure, no plans this evening. The Rising Sun, 8pm?**

His heart lurched, and he tapped out a reply with trembling fingers. **See you there.** He dropped his phone back onto the bed and lay frozen for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding. Then he sat up, grabbed his towel and headed for the shower.

...

Ilsa arrived in the pub feeling inexplicably guilty. Her heart had skipped with delight when Nick had texted to say he was at a loose end and did she fancy a quick drink. Claire was out with Strike again and Pete was out with the lads, so she hadn’t told anyone she was meeting Nick. _I’m not hiding it,_ she told herself. _Just everyone was too busy to tell._

She’d paid more attention than usual to her make-up, though, and put on a pretty blouse. Maybe that was why she felt guilty, because she wanted to look good for him and that was wrong. She was promised to marry Pete.

 _No harm in looking good, though,_ she thought. _He dumped me, after all. A girl has her pride._

Any feelings that she might have had that this evening was wrong, however, were forgotten when she saw him. He was wearing a dark shirt tonight and was freshly shaven, handsome as ever with a hint of aftershave. She was captivated, transported back to how she’d felt that first night she’d met him at his and Strike’s joint eighteenth birthday party, when he’d stood out compared to all the other guys in the room, the best looking by far, and somehow miraculously seemed to find her attractive too. They’d been mesmerised by one another, oblivious to the party going on around them as they chatted and flirted and giggled. It had felt like magic.

Some of that same feeling came over her now as they chatted over a drink, and she found herself having to concentrate on not flirting, on being appropriate.

Nick was having his own struggles to keep things light and friendly. His jaw had almost dropped when she’d arrived, curvy and sparkly, a teal blouse making her blue-green eyes more luminous than ever, soft pink lipstick that dragged his eyes to her lips again and again. He had to force himself not to stare, not to imagine kissing her, not to flirt or touch her. He had a sudden sense that she was even more beautiful now than she had been at eighteen. It was her confidence, the way she carried herself. _Maybe not more beautiful,_ he thought. _That might not have been possible. But God, she’s sexier._

Their drinks were finished. “Let’s go for a walk,” Nick said suddenly, and Ilsa nodded. She’d enjoyed strolling with him the night he’d walked her home. They set off along the London streets, and she was reminded that Nick’s dad was a cabbie and he knew London like the back of his hand. They explored, and he showed her bits of the capital she’d never seen, although she’d lived right here for a few years now. Quaint little alleyways, hidden courtyards, tiny parks that you wouldn’t have thought could be there. Darkness fell slowly as they explored and chatted.

Eventually she realised they were circling back round to her flat, and she fell quiet, sad that the evening was over. They strolled along, a slight hint of tension in the air now that hadn’t existed all evening as they walked and reminisced and Ilsa marvelled over London’s hidden treasures.

They reached her door. “This is me,” she said, and stopped.

“Yes,” he replied.

There was a small, awkward silence.

“I enjoyed this evening,” Ilsa said suddenly. “I’d like to do it again sometime.”

Nick grinned at her then, so handsome it took her breath away. “Okay,” he said. He leaned down, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Her heart leaped into her throat and her eyelids fluttered closed. But all she felt was the merest brush of his lips on her cheek.

“Good night,” he said, slightly husky.

“Good night,” she replied, fiercely disappointed that he hadn’t kissed her and full of shame that she’d wanted him to.


	9. It Was Just A Walk

Claire stumbled from her room, yawning, slightly late the next morning. Ilsa was already in the kitchen, work clothes on, a mug of coffee steaming gently next to her while she sorted through a pile of files and packed them into her bag.

“I assume it’s okay with you if I leave Corm to sleep while we go to work?” Claire asked. “He can let himself out later.”

“Sure,” Ilsa said, pouring her a coffee and passing it across.

“Thanks,” Claire took the coffee and sat at the kitchen table opposite her. She paused a moment, looking at her friend appraisingly. Ilsa carried on packing her bag.

“You weren’t here when we got back last night,” Claire said. “Thought Pete was busy?”

“I have other friends,” Ilsa said lightly, but a slight blush gave her away. Claire looked at her sharply.

“I’m guessing you were out with Nick?” she said. Ilsa hesitated, then nodded.

“We went for a walk and talked,” she said. “I’m not doing anything wrong. He’s an old friend. It was just a walk.” She closed her bag and set it aside, sat down opposite her flatmate.

Claire looked at her thoughtfully. “Did you tell Pete you were going?” she asked. Ilsa shook her head mutely. “And you didn’t tell me. Maybe it’s not as innocent as you’re pretending to yourself,” Claire suggested gently.

“It was a last-minute thing. You were both out already,” Ilsa said defensively.

Claire spread her hands. “Hey, don’t bite,” she said. “You okay? You looked pissed off in the pub the other night and now you’re being prickly.”

“I’m fine,” Ilsa said briskly, standing up again. “Come on, get ready, or we’ll be late.”

Claire frowned a little, but dropped the subject and went to get dressed.

...

“Seen Ilsa at all?” Strike asked Nick during their walk to cool off from another circuit of Regent’s Park after Nick’s shift that evening. He knew full well that Nick had, having accidentally overheard a snippet of the girls’ conversation on his way to the bathroom that morning, but he wondered if Nick would admit to it.

Nick hesitated, but nodded. “Saw her last night,” he said. “We had a quick drink, went for a walk. I showed her round some of the secret bits of London.”

Strike looked at him sideways. “Sounds like something you’d do to try and impress a woman,” he said shrewdly.

Nick looked away, admiring the park in the evening light. Clusters of people walked or lazed on the grass, enjoying the last hour or so of sunshine. “It was just a walk,” he said.

_Yeah_ , Strike thought. _That’s what Ilsa said. And I didn’t believe her either._

Nick sighed a little. He’d enjoyed the previous evening more than he’d initially been willing to admit to himself. His vague intention of trying to get Ilsa out of his mind hadn't worked at all. He was still powerfully attracted to her.

He had so, so nearly kissed her. They had got along so well, easy in one another’s company just like old times, and it had been too easy to allow himself to forget, to forget the fiancé, to ignore the diamond that sparkled on her finger and sent glittering shards of guilt through him.

He wondered if she had wanted him to kiss her. Surely not. She was engaged, and seemed happy to be so. She would, quite rightly, have rejected him and sent his whole world crashing down around his ears.

Still, he wondered if she had wanted him to.

Strike looked at him sideways, at the furrow of his brow, the slump of his shoulders, and said nothing.


	10. It’s Just Another Walk

Ilsa felt much more guilty about this meeting, because she had instigated it. She had waited a week, been on a couple of nice evenings out with Pete and tried to work out whether he just seemed bland compared to Nick, or whether he’d always been bland and she hadn’t noticed. He was starting to talk about getting a flat together now they were engaged, and she made positive but non-committal noises. The thought of moving in together alarmed her a little. _Why are you engaged if you don’t want to live with him?_ She asked herself. But she had wanted to, a few weeks ago. She was just unsure now. More so after her conversation with Claire. She was beginning to reevaluate her relationship with Pete.

Nick hadn’t texted, and in the end she had texted him and suggested another drink and a walk. He’d answered straightaway in the affirmative, and before Ilsa could really think about it, she was getting ready.

Claire watched as she padded back and forth between kitchen and bedroom and bathroom. “You’re going out with Nick, aren’t you?” she asked, and Ilsa blushed.

“How did you know?” There was no point denying it.

“You don’t spend nearly this long getting ready when you’re seeing Pete,” Claire said, grinning, but secretly a little worried for her friend. This behaviour wasn’t like Ilsa. She’d always been one of the most together people Claire had ever met.

Finally Ilsa was ready, and set off for the pub where they were to meet. Claire watched her go and sighed a little, and resolved to be in and still awake when she got back, just in case.

Ilsa marched briskly up the road, trying not to think too hard about what she was doing. _I’m just meeting an old friend,_ she told herself. But she still hadn’t told Pete she’d even bumped into Nick again.

Her heart jumped when she saw him approaching the pub from the other direction, and he grinned and waved when he spotted her. They met at the doorway to the pub and hesitated. Ilsa looked up at him and heat swept through her suddenly. Something was different. Was it because tonight had been at her behest? He was looking at her differently. The friendly but reserved air he’d maintained since seeing her engagement ring was gone.

(She’d nearly taken the ring off, tonight, but somehow doing so would have seemed like an admission of something she couldn’t even name or properly think about herself.)

“Do you fancy a drink, or shall we just stroll?” Nick asked.

“Let’s stroll, see if we spot somewhere we like the look of on the way,” Ilsa said. He nodded, and turned to fall into step with her, offering her his arm as though they were in a period drama. Flushing slightly, she slid her hand through the crook of his elbow, resting her fingers lightly on his forearm.

They strolled and talked, and for a while the evening was the same as it had been the last time. They slipped into easy chat, exploring a different part of the city. They came across a tiny old-fashioned pub and stopped in for a drink, which became two. Ilsa began to be very conscious of the fact that, whatever she told herself, to the outside world this would look like a date. She wondered if Nick thought it was a date. She wondered if it was a date.

They left the pub, Bacardi warm in her stomach, and headed back towards Ilsa’s flat. Nick was quiet now, thoughtful. The evening breeze wafted over them, ruffling Ilsa’s hair. Goosebumps rose on her skin, but she wasn’t cold.

As they strolled along the road that led to Ilsa’s street, they passed one of the quaint little alleys that led to a tiny courtyard that they had explored before. Nick paused, hesitated, then took her hand unexpectedly and pulled her into the alley. Surprised, Ilsa followed, and suddenly he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

She jumped in shock, but if she was honest with herself, she’d been longing for him to. She kissed him back at once, her arms creeping up around his neck. She pulled him closer, trembling as his mouth moved over hers, and then his lips parted and his tongue came forward to brush over her top lip. Desire jumped within her. She moaned a little, and suddenly he was kissing her fiercely. She found herself pressed up against the wall she hadn’t even realised was behind her as he kissed her and kissed her. She clung to him, shuddering, her tongue meeting his, and he groaned a little against her mouth. His whole body was pressed to hers now, and the overwhelming familiarity of it stunned her. She could remember everything about being with him, suddenly, about the physical connection they’d shared.

Eventually she had to pull away to breathe, and she clung to his shoulders, panting a little. He rested his forehead on hers.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the minute you and Claire walked into the pub that first evening,” he said shakily.

Dazed, Ilsa just stared up at him. It was almost dark now, his expression hard to read. She searched his face. What was he saying? That he still fancied her, certainly. But was there anything more?

The lights of a passing car twinkled off her engagement ring, and guilt lurched in her stomach powerfully, making her feel sick. Hot shame washed over her. Shame that turned, unexpectedly, to anger. Uncertain of Nick’s feelings, afraid of her own, full of shame that she’d let herself get carried away, feeling guilty about Pete, Ilsa lashed out.

“What the fuck, Nick?” she muttered, pulling her arms down from his neck, pushing on his chest. He stepped back at once, shocked.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I thought—”

“Thought what?” She demanded, her wobbling voice louder than she’d intended. She struggled to modify her volume, trembling. “That you could just waltz back into my life six years after you dumped me and walked off into the sunset and _never contacted me,_ and pick right up where you left off?”

“I— No...”

“What, then?” Her hands were on her hips now, her blue-green eyes flashing sparks. Nick was thrown totally off balance by her response, agonised that he’d angered her, trying to ignore his libido pointing out to him how utterly sexy she was, standing up to him fiercely.

He couldn’t think of anything except the truth.

“I just wanted to,” he said lamely. “And I thought you wanted me to.”

“Well, I did!” she shouted. “But that doesn’t mean you can just kiss me!”

“I— What?” Confused, Nick gazed at her. Her words and her body language didn’t match up. Her words and her words didn’t match up.

Ilsa blinked, horrified to realise she was on the verge of tears. “I can’t do this,” she muttered. “I— I just can’t.” And she turned and hurried away.

“Ilsa—” Nick took half a step after her, reaching for her, but she didn’t turn back, just flapping an arm in his direction as if to shut him up, wave him away. He stopped.

He stood and watched her go, and sighed. He followed her round to the street corner so he could watch her walk along to her flat. He waited until she was safely inside, and then set off for home, resolving to finish his albeit casual relationship with Sian.

Ilsa was determined not to look back, but she couldn’t resist a glance up the street as she opened her front door. He was watching as she let herself in, and then he turned and walked away up the street. Ilsa stepped into the flat and closed the door, sank down onto the doormat and burst into tears.


	11. Claire Comforts Ilsa

Ilsa had been expecting Claire to be out, and was surprised to find her flatmate scooping her up off the doormat and helping her through to the kitchen.

“Oh, God, is Cormoran here?” Ilsa muttered, wiping a hand across her face but only smearing tears around.

“No, he’s not back from Cornwall till tomorrow,” Claire said. “What happened? Have you had a crappy evening?”

“No, I’ve had a wonderful evening, that’s the trouble!” Ilsa cried, and dissolved into tears again.

Claire passed her the kitchen roll and sat and hugged her for a long minute while she cried. Then as Ilsa began to mop herself up, she moved to the kettle and put it on, made mugs of herbal tea and brought them back to the table. Ilsa was composed now, pale.

“This is because of Nick?” Claire asked.

Ilsa nodded. Claire sighed a little. “Start at the beginning,” she said, sitting down opposite her friend.

Ilsa took a shaky breath. “We just went for another walk,” she said. “But we stopped into this little pub and had a drink before we walked back. It was magical. It...kind of felt like a date.”

She paused, flushing, and Claire waited. “And— And then he kissed me,” Ilsa said. “And I kissed him back, a bit. And then I felt guilty and shouted at him and ran away.”

There was a pause. Claire sighed again. She leaned forward over the table and took Ilsa’s hand in hers gently.

“What’s going on, buddy?” she asked. “I mean really. Not what’s physically happening. What’s in your head, in your heart?”

Ilsa took another slow, shuddering breath. “I’m afraid I’m falling in love with him again,” she said. She raised her eyes to Claire’s. “Maybe... Maybe I never stopped loving him.”

Claire looked levelly back at her. “And...?”

“And I’m afraid he doesn’t feel the same way. All I really know is that he still fancies me, and I wasn’t even sure of that until he kissed me just now. He’s been very carefully neutral so far, hasn’t said or done anything more than just be friendly. Till tonight.”

Claire looked thoughtful. “Do you want to take it further?”

Ilsa looked away. She sat back, twisting her damp piece of kitchen roll in her hands. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m scared. He hurt me so badly last time. And Pete,” she said. “I feel so guilty about Pete. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Okay, how about this,” Claire said. “Do you love Pete like you loved Nick?”

A pause.

“No,” Ilsa said, sadly. “But Pete loves me and wants to marry me, and Nick dumped me. How stupid would I be to give Pete up on the chance that Nick will stick around this time?”

Claire sat back as well and thought for a long minute. “They’re separate issues,” she said at last. “You can’t marry Pete if you don’t love him, really love him.” She held up a hand to forestall Ilsa’s protest. “I believe you do love him in a way,” she said. “A safe way. But he doesn’t set your soul on fire like Nick did. Does.”

Ilsa shook her head.

“So you need to decide if that’s enough for you to spend the rest of your life with him. Especially when you know you can feel more,” Claire said slowly.

Ilsa nodded.

“And if not, then after that, whether or not you want to risk it again with Nick is a separate thing,” Claire concluded.

Ilsa nodded again. She needed to think. Was she willing to give Pete up and risk being left with nothing?

Claire sighed, and gazed fondly at her friend. Ever since she’d known her, Ilsa had been calm, focussed, career-driven. Claire had known about her first love, often recounted tipsily over wine, but once Ilsa had met Pete she’d seemed settled. Nick’s appearance had thrown her completely off balance.

...

Nick sighed and turned over in bed yet again. He’d woken far too early and couldn’t get back to sleep. It was too soon to get up and shower, he’d wake his housemates.

He’d slept badly. Despite a couple of pints during the evening, and an extra one alone in the pub nearest his house while he tried to make sense of what had happened, he’d struggled to get to sleep, and when he finally did, all his dreams had been of Ilsa.

He glanced across at the clock. It was a long time till his shift. Maybe he should go for a run. He was disinclined to bother, though.

Rolling onto his back, he gazed at the ceiling and relived the kiss in his mind for what felt like about the millionth time. Ilsa had responded to him at once, and everything about it, her taste, her little whimper, her hands in his hair, was exactly as he remembered. He’d been unable to stop himself pressing her into the wall, desperate to feel her whole body next to his, and he ached at the memory of her perfect shape against him, her breasts pressed to his chest, the curve of her hip under his hand.

He sighed again. He’d been trying so hard to convince himself he could be friends with her, that it was none of his business that she was marrying someone else, that he was glad she was happy. One kiss had blown all that out of the water. As though a switch had been flicked, he was eighteen again, besotted, thinking of her in his every waking moment and most of the sleeping ones too, unable to get her out of his mind.

He had no way to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. The way she had kissed him back gave him hope that she was still attracted to him, that she remembered their physical connection. But she had pulled back, raged at him, run away. He’d seen the regret in her eyes and it had cut him, hard.

The last thing he wanted to do was cause her more pain. But he knew now with a desperate certainty that he wanted her back. He’d never felt for anyone else even half of what he’d felt for her.

She was still marrying another guy.

He swallowed and forced his mind to his other problem. He was also going to have to do something about Sian. She’d suggested getting together the previous evening, and he hadn’t wanted to. He’d turned her down despite being free, making a vague excuse about needing to get on with his latest research paper, and she hadn’t pressed him. They didn’t have that kind of relationship, keeping things light and casual with no demands on one another’s time. He still felt a little guilty for the lie, though. In truth he hadn’t been able to face her, hadn’t wanted to go to bed with her only for things to be awkward again, hadn’t wanted to have to explain anything to her.

He needed to stop avoiding her and talk to her.


	12. Strike Talks To Nick

“Sian—”

“Nick, let me stop you right there.” She regarded him over her glass of wine, one eyebrow raised. “You don’t owe me anything, that’s not what we are. If you want to finish it, just say so.”

He hesitated, looked down at his pint and back up at her. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “Me too,” she said sombrely. Then she winked. “We’re good in bed together. I shall have to train someone else up.”

Nick snorted a laugh. Sian had always been direct and upfront. She didn’t believe in elephants in the room.

He tried to explain. “It’s not—”

“Ah!” She held up a hand. “You’d really better not be about to say ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ Spare me that cliche.”

He nodded, grinning. “It’s not you, it’s someone else,” he said. “I ran into my first serious girlfriend at that reunion thing and there’s still something there, for me at least. I just—” He broke off and sighed. “Maybe nothing can ever happen. But I want to be available if it could.”

Sian nodded and took a gulp of her wine. “Explains why you’ve been distracted,” she said with another wink, and he blushed. “Does she feel the same?”

Nick looked back down at his pint. “Er, she’s actually engaged.”

It was Sian’s turn to laugh. “Ambitious!” she said. “Well, good luck with that.”

Nick gave a rueful chuckle. “I’m still sorry. I like you, we were having fun.”

“We were. But, you know... I feel like you’re a marriage-and-kids kind of a person, and I’m not. So we were on borrowed time anyway. I’d have ended it myself at any sign of you developing feelings that I would have inevitably hurt.”

Nick laughed. “Good to know.”

She shrugged. “Hey, climbing the ladder in medicine is hard graft. I don’t have any plans for my life outside that except to enjoy it.”

Nick nodded.

“Bad timing, though.”

“In what way?”

“I’ve had a long day, I was looking forward to a bit of de-stressing. You could have finished things after the sex, not before.” She grinned.

“I don’t think I’m that kind of guy.” Nick picked at the edge of his beer mat a bit.

Sian smiled softly. “No, I know. Still, now you’ve said your piece, want to come back to mine anyway? No strings.”

For just a moment, he was tempted. But it was Ilsa he wanted.

“Um, I’m not sure I’m that kind of guy either.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “This woman must be special.”

Nick nodded. “She is. She’s everything.”

Sian slid her hand over his and squeezed it warmly. “Then I hope it works out for you,” she said, and he could see she meant it.

She drained her glass, set it back on the table and stood. “Well, I guess I’m going for a run to de-stress,” she said with a wink. “Better get going before it gets dark. I’ll see you around?”

Nick nodded. “Thank you for being so good about it,” he said.

She shrugged. “Not a lot of point trying to hang on to someone who doesn’t want to be hung on to.” She hesitated a moment, and then leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Take care.”

“You too.”

Sian left, glancing up and down the road as she stepped from the pub, darting across between the cars and turning in the direction of the Tube station. Nick sat and stared at the rest of his pint, feeling vaguely guilty and vaguely relieved and vaguely hopeful and vaguely uncertain. He glanced at his watch. He’d made a backup plan to meet Strike tonight in case things had gone badly with Sian and he needed an excuse to leave. He felt slightly mean for thinking that of her now.

He smiled softly to himself. A part of him was going to miss her. But she was right, he wanted more than just a casual relationship. And he wanted it with Ilsa.

...

“Jesus, Nick, you’re hard work tonight.” Strike nudged his friend. “You’ve hardly said two words. What gives?”

Nick sighed. “Sorry,” he said. “Lot on my mind.”

Strike cast a sideways look at him. “Woman trouble, I’m guessing,” he said, and Nick nodded.

“Sian or Ilsa?”

Nick shook his head. “Sian’s out of the picture, I just broke it off with her,” he said. Strike raised an eyebrow at this. Nick’s relationship with his colleague had sounded ideal - regular sex and no pressure, no obligation to play the dutiful boyfriend at social engagements, to move the relationship along according to someone else’s preconceived timeline.

“Ilsa, then.” It was a statement, not a question. Nick gave a rueful smile.

“Right, hold that thought, we need more beer,” said Strike, and headed to the bar.

Presently he returned with two pints and sat back down. “So, what’s going on?” He withdrew a cigarette from his pack and lit it, reaching across to the next table for an ashtray.

“I genuinely don’t know,” Nick said. “We got on really well that night you guys abandoned us here...”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Strike grinned, looking not in the least bit sorry. “I can assure you it was worth it!”

Nick smiled and shook his head, rolling his eyes.

“Sorry, go on,” Strike said, serious again.

“So, yeah, we got on well that night, and we exchanged numbers for... for an innocent reason, talking about organising a big London/Cornwall get together,” Nick said vaguely. “And I texted her one night just on the off chance really, I was at a loose end and I’d enjoyed catching up with her. We just went for a walk, that was all. Well, I told you about that.”

Strike waited, sensing there was more.

“And then she texted me suggesting we do it again, so we did,” Nick said. “And it was—” He broke off and gave a deep sigh. “I don’t know, Oggy. Being with her feels like no time has passed at all, like we still belong together. Like it’s meant to be.”

There was a long pause.

“And?” Strike prompted.

Nick sighed again. “I kissed her. And... Well, she kind of kissed me back, but then she got mad that I’d done it and had a go at me and then left, and I haven’t heard from her since,” he said. “So basically I’ve fucked it up again.”

Strike sat back, thinking. He took a long draught of his pint followed by a drag on his cigarette. “Not necessarily,” he said.

Nick looked at him. “How so?” he asked.

“Well, you don’t know what she’s thinking, do you?” he said. “I mean, she kissed you back.”

“Briefly.”

“But properly?”

Nick remembered her whimper, her fingers in his hair, her tongue in his mouth. “Yeah.”

Strike snorted. Nick scowled down at the table.

There was a small pause while Strike finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

“Look, Nick, it’s none of my business really, but she was pretty cut up when you dumped her six years ago. You can’t blame her for being cautious.”

“I didn’t dump her!” Nick said. “I was letting her go. I didn’t want to tie her down.”

Strike gave a wry smile. “I’m sure she appreciated the distinction,” he said drily.

Nick groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God, Oggy, what do I do?”

Strike rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Herbert. If I’m ever in this situation, I want you to kick me up the backside. Just bloody well talk to her.”

“What if I’m wrong?”

Strike gazed at him levelly. “Is she worth fighting for?” he asked.

“God, yes,” Nick said vehemently. “I can’t lose her again. I just can’t.”

“And have you actually told her any of this?”

Nick looked away. “No.”

“Then you have to talk to her,” Strike said. “Say all of this. Explain. Tell her how you feel. You might still lose her, but she might feel the same.”

Nick nodded, and went back to gazing into his pint.


	13. An Evening In The Pub

_You can’t keep doing this,_ Ilsa told herself as she shrugged on her jacket and set off to meet Nick again. _You just can’t._

She walked briskly up the road, trying to ignore the skipping of her heart at the thought of seeing him, the small voice in her head telling her this was wrong. _We’re just old friends._

She sighed. Whatever she tried to tell herself, this wasn’t fair on Pete. A few weeks ago she’d agreed to marry him. Now she was... what? Going for walks with her ex. It was hardly some big passionate affair. It was just walking. But Claire was right. In her heart she was being unfaithful, not least in the fact that she hadn’t even told Pete that Nick was around.

It was worse than that, if she was honest with herself. The kiss the other night, that she had run away from, had awoken something within her, some deep, primal part of her that remembered the physical connection she and Nick had shared. She’d dreamed about him almost every night since.

The first night, she had had sex with Pete, deliberately initiating things herself in the hopes that it would distract her, remind her traitorous body in which direction those energies were supposed to lie.

It hadn’t worked. It was Nick she wanted. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to sleep with Pete since, and she was sure he was starting to suspect something was amiss, though she tried so hard to be normal.

Anticipation buzzed through her now at the thought of seeing Nick again. She knew it was dangerous to spend time with him when she was feeling like this, but she so longed to see him, to be with him, to feel the way she felt in his presence, alive and desired and—

She shook her head. _Stop it._

She squared her shoulders as she approached the pub, resolving to keep things light and friendly, telling herself she wasn’t longing for him to kiss her again.

Her heart turned over in her chest as soon as she saw him. He’d clearly made an effort again, freshly showered and shaved and smelling gorgeous, in a dark blue shirt that worked with his colouring. He was courteous and polite, but very slightly distant, and for a moment Ilsa wondered why he’d agreed to meet her after the way they’d left things the other night.

He smiled down at her, so handsome and yet making her heart ache with how...formal he was, as though she were merely another acquaintance.

“Shall we have a drink, or just go for a wander?”

“Let’s have a drink,” Ilsa said decidedly. Suddenly she didn’t want to walk and chat, she wanted to sit and have a few glasses of wine and let herself be absorbed by him. He grinned and turned to the bar, and she hovered slightly awkwardly at his elbow.

It was all too confusing. When she saw Nick, she was so drawn to him, as she always had been, captivated all over again. But when she was alone, the doubts crept in. And when she was with Pete, safe, comfortable Pete, a part of her still felt like it was madness to be even considering rekindling something with her ex.

And yet. And yet. Claire was right. Pete had never once made her feel like Nick did. Pete was lovely, sweet, dependable. But he didn’t captivate her, didn’t make her heart race. Didn’t make her feel alive just standing next to him in an average pub, waiting to get served.

They didn’t go for a walk, in the end. They stayed in the pub. No mention was made of the other evening, of the kiss, and once they were settled at a table with their drinks, both relaxed. They drank, and talked, and laughed, and drank some more. Tipsy, Ilsa began to flirt. Nick began to let his guard down and allow himself to be entranced by her. The engagement ring was ignored. Their hands drifted closer together on the table between them, never quite touching, but the possibility hung in the air. Captured by his warm gaze and friendly grin, Ilsa fizzed with happiness and desire.

She knew it was wrong, but somehow Pete faded in comparison in her mind when she was with Nick. No relationship had ever lived up to the connection they had shared, and nothing else felt as...real, somehow.

At the end of the evening, Ilsa couldn’t bear to leave. They hesitated on the street, and on impulse she asked to see where he lived, telling herself they could just have a friendly cup of tea to round off the evening. They made their way to the house Nick shared with fellow doctors, chatting as they strolled, and Ilsa’s heart fluttered. She tried very hard not to analyse her excitement at the thought of being somewhere alone with him away from Claire and Strike, away from where anyone she knew would see. Tried to tell herself that she wasn’t, in fact, engineering just such a situation, pretending that he wasn’t letting her.

Her heart in her throat, she found herself drifting closer to him as they strolled, her shoulder almost against his arm. Their hands brushed, and the spark of desire that had flickered all evening burst into light. She found herself sliding her hand into his briefly, her nails scraping across his palm, and heard his breath catch. He glanced at her, and the searing heat in his gaze jolted her. No one had ever looked at her like that, not since he last had so many years ago.

For his part, Nick could barely breathe. He was pretty sure he’d made it clear he wanted more from her the other night, but she’d rejected his advance and so any move now had to come from her. When she’d asked to see his house, his heart had begun to pound, and now she had slid her hand into his. Maybe, just maybe—

They arrived at the house, and he offered her a cup of tea. They went into the little kitchen. Nick put the kettle on. The air between them felt strained, tense. He tried to keep chatting about this and that, but the words dried up. The kettle chuntered, and he found himself just standing looking at her, his heart hammering.

Ilsa stepped towards him, a cheeky smile on her face, her chest rising and falling as her breathing stuttered. He realised he was staring at her breasts, and hurriedly dragged his eyes back to her face. “Not like you to be lost for words,” she murmured, and she was far too close suddenly.

“No.” His voice shook, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from hers. She was searching his face, looking for...what?

Ilsa took half a step closer, rising up onto her toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. It was chaste and close-mouthed, but soft and questioning. She drew away again and looked up at him, waiting.

He could smell her, this close. See the swell of her breasts in the stunning teal blouse, a hint of cleavage from this angle. Desire rose sharply, and he took a shuddering breath. His eyes searched hers. Did she want him to...? It seemed like such an obvious signal, but she’d made it very clear the other night that his advances were not welcome. He hesitated, caught between what he should do and what he so longed to do.

“Nick—” Ilsa breathed, moving infinitesimally closer again so that her breasts were actually brushing his chest, and he was lost. With a groan he leaned down and kissed her, his mouth taking possession of hers, his hands sliding into her hair. She met him with passion, her hands clutching at his upper arms, her tongue meeting his, her breasts pressed against him. Desire leaped, and he could feel himself growing hard already. They kissed and kissed, the kettle forgotten.

Ilsa whimpered a little into his mouth, pushing her hips to his, moaning at the feel of him, hard and insistent, thrusting back at her. Her hands slid to his waist, pulling him against her, and Nick groaned again at the feel of her. She rocked against him, and the press of her against his erection was more than he could bear, sending bolts of lust through him.

“Where’s your room?” she muttered against his lips, and Nick took a shuddering breath. This was madness, she’d made it clear the other night she didn’t want anything to happen, she was engaged—

She was also thrusting her tongue into his mouth, deliberately rubbing herself against his aching cock and asking him to take her to his room, and he was only human.

He pulled her, still kissing her, backing into door frames, down the hall to the stairs, where they were forced to part to make their way up. Nick took her hand in his, panting, and she followed him up to the landing and across to his door. The brief separation allowed him a moment of clarity. He pulled her into his room and closed the door behind them, and turned to her. “Ilsa—”

She was back in his arms at once, her mouth seeking his, her hands pushing his coat from his shoulders. He capitulated immediately. He’d think about it later, or tomorrow. He couldn’t think about anything except the taste and feel of her right now.

Nick removed his hands from her arms long enough to drag his coat off and throw it aside, dimly registering that she was stripping hers off too, her breasts straining the buttons on her blouse as she pulled her arms behind herself.

They kicked their shoes off, and then she was in his arms again, wrapped around him, practically climbing up him, her mouth seeking his and her tongue thrusting forwards. Nick stumbled backwards and they fell onto the bed still fully clothed, wrapped in each other, kissing frantically, pulling at one another’s clothing.

Heat surged between them. Ilsa moaned into Nick’s mouth as he kissed her, and desire clenched hard at the base of his spine. He was so aroused it was almost painful. He rolled them both so that he was above her, pressing her body down into the bed with his, grinding against her, seeking relief.

She was pulling at his shirt now, fumbling clumsily with buttons, and he drew back long enough to strip it off and throw it aside. Ilsa reached for his belt, tugging on it, pulling him back to her, her mouth seeking his again. He kissed her, and then wrenched his mouth away from hers to run kisses and gentle bites across her jaw to her ear and down her neck. Ilsa moaned and writhed beneath him, her fingers clutching at the muscles of his back, making the soft sounds of pleasure that he remembered so clearly suddenly. He burned with desire, thrusting his hips to hers with a growl as she slid her hands across his skin.

He unbuttoned the gorgeous teal blouse with shaking fingers, pulling it open and kissing his way down between her breasts. She arched up beneath him, and he pulled her bra aside to kiss across her breast and close his mouth over her nipple, tonguing it gently. Ilsa cried out softly, bucking her hips to his, and any last shreds of self-control he might have had were gone.

She pushed him away a little, half sitting up to shed the blouse and undo her trousers, and he followed suit, stepping back to strip his trousers and socks off. Seeing that she was discarding her underwear, he dragged his boxers off too. Within half a minute they were both naked, clothing cast in all directions, and Ilsa was dragging him frantically back to her. Her intentions were quite clear as she pulled at his shoulders, dragging him down to lie on her. Her hands slid down to his hips and she strained up to meet him, wrapping her legs over his, sliding her aching core against him. His cock throbbed with pleasure against her inviting wetness, and a deep groan escaped him.

He couldn’t resist her, couldn’t think anything coherent through the fog of lust she had always aroused in him. Any ideas of savouring the moment were swept away by their mutual need. He thrust into her welcoming heat, gasping at the feel of her, so long-ago familiar and yet new and real and hot. Mouthing frantically at her neck, he rocked into her, and she bucked up to every thrust, groaning and pulling at him. Pleasure swamped him, the shock and delight and speed of their encounter overtaking him.

She was tight and hot around him, groaning and trembling as he thrust, her eyes glazed with pleasure. She pulled at his hips, encouraging him harder against her, and he could feel the tension building in her, rising to meet his.

“Nick, please—” she gasped, dragging at him with her hands, frantically thrusting her hips back at him. Every sense was filled with her, touch, sight, sound, smell, his pleasure building fast. He was dangerously close to the edge, all control gone, her soft cries driving him wild.

Nick felt the exact moment she dissolved, heard the pleasure splinter her voice. Her head dropped back, and he buried his face in her shoulder and let the storm break over him, fierce pulses rocking him as he came, jerking into her, grunting fiercely into her ear in ecstasy.

He collapsed onto her, gasping, and she clung to him, her body still quivering as aftershocks swept through her. His arms tightened around her shoulders, and hers wrapped around his back, hands sliding across sweat-slicked skin. She hummed gently with satisfaction.

Gradually they stilled, and silence descended. _What now?_ Nick wondered. This had not been the plan for this evening, not at all, but he didn’t regret it. He clung to her, full of joy and hope, but she wasn’t saying anything and he didn’t want to ruin the moment. She was languid and relaxed beneath him, and he lay on her, her arms around him, just as he used to years ago, surrounded by the smell and feel of her.

Eventually he shifted just enough to move his weight onto his hip next to her, his torso still half across her, unwilling to leave her arms.

Maybe nothing needed saying in these quiet, perfect moments. He closed his eyes and breathed her, his face in her neck, absorbing the long-ago familiar scent of her, musky and sated, revelling in the feel of her arms around him and her breath against his cheek. Her eyes were closed too, but her hands stroked him softly, and he found himself lulled gently into sleep.


	14. The Morning After

It didn’t matter how quiet she was. When Ilsa crept into her flat after a slow, thoughtful walk across London in the early morning mist, Strike was at their kitchen table, coffee in hand. He raised an eyebrow at her as she crept in in her socks, shoes in her hand, and she flushed.

She could hear the shower running. She’d have to have a quick shower herself before work. She smelled disconcertingly of Nick, could scent him on herself, achingly familiar even after all these years. It was too much, making her feel unbearably guilty about Pete, yet also almost upset at the old familiarity of Nick’s smell on her skin. She longed to wash him off. Instead she sat down at the table and busied herself pouring coffee, while Strike gazed impassively at her, irritating her with his calm appraisal when surely it was obvious she didn’t want him looking at her.

“What?” she demanded eventually.

“Good evening?” he asked mildly.

“Yes, thanks.” Her tone was final, inviting no further questions. She buried her face in her mug.

“Ils—” Strike started and stopped, sighed a little, looked away.

“What?” she put her coffee down.

He shook his head. “It’s none of my business.”

“No, what?”

He hesitated. “Just...don’t hurt him. Or yourself.”

Ilsa coloured a little, but knew better than to even attempt to pretend that she thought he was talking about Pete.

“How would I hurt him?”

Strike sighed. “I know he hurt you badly all those years ago. But he’s vulnerable here too.”

Ilsa scowled down at her coffee. She did feel vulnerable, raw, as well as ashamed. She hadn’t been able to face Nick this morning. She’d woken early and lain and gazed at him for a while, snoring softly next to her, and her heart had twisted with grief. She’d been unfaithful to her fiancé, and what had she achieved? She’d proved to herself that she was just as vulnerable to Nick as she had been six years ago, just as drawn to him physically and emotionally, and just as much in danger of falling in love and having her heart broken all over again.

She couldn’t allow that to happen. For all she knew, he was still seeing Sian and this was just something on the side of an already very casual relationship. She was worth more than that. She owned her part in instigating last night, swept away in the evening and their mutual attraction. But in the cold light of day, reality must assert itself. Unable to bear an awkward breakfast and “see you around” from the man who had once meant the whole world to her, she’d quietly gathered up her things and left.

There was certainly no sign of Nick feeling as vulnerable as she did. She pulled her irritation closer around herself now like a protective cape, guarding her battered heart.

“He finished it,” she snapped. It was as much to remind herself as explain to Strike, and she knew she sounded petulant. He sighed again.

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.” He pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, picked up his coffee and moved to the front door. He paused and looked back at her.

“Talk to him, Ilsa. Tell him how you’re feeling.”

The unexpected gentleness in her old friend’s voice brought tears to her eyes. Ilsa dropped her eyes to her coffee again and nodded tightly.

She heard Strike sigh a little as he let himself out onto the front step to light his cigarette.

Ilsa picked up her mug and took it to her bedroom. She needed to get ready for work.

...

Nick lay and gazed at the ceiling of his room. He didn’t need the lack of her strewn clothing to tell him Ilsa was gone. He could feel her absence in the quietness of the house.

He sighed, and swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He had hardly expected things to be plain sailing this morning, even in the throes of his joy and hope last night as he held her close. He’d worried that it would be awkward, but had hoped they could talk through it.

He hadn’t expected her to be gone.

Scattered images flitted through his mind. Making love to her was everything he’d remembered and more, pleasure that he’d never experienced with anyone else. He remembered lying in her arms, her hands softly stroking him, feeling as though he’d come home, drifting as sleep claimed him. As far as he was concerned, their connection was still there, still profound. So why had she left?

Tears stung his eyes. He rolled over, and the scent of her on his pillow, on his bedding, washed over him. He’d thought last night had been the start of...what? _She’s still engaged, idiot_ , he told himself angrily. So what had it been to her? A final fling before she started planning her wedding? A goodbye? Simple curiosity, to see if what they’d had was still there? Just lust?

He lay for a long time, his mind blank, his heart heavy. At some point he was going to have to get up, go out and face the world, put one foot in front of the other, keep going without her. He’d done it before, he would do it again.

It seemed too much, today. To have had the chance of her in his grasp again, and to have lost it, again. For a while he toyed with the idea of calling in sick, staying in bed for the day.

Medicine was his life, work had always been his solace. He rolled out of bed, grabbed his towel, headed for the shower.


	15. Make It Clear

Strike stubbed his cigarette out and regarded his friend across the pub table. Conversation was dragging, Nick distracted. Might as well take the bull by the horns.

“So, you and Ilsa slept together?” he asked conversationally.

Nick jumped, staring at him in shock. “How the hell do you know that?”

Strike grinned. “I was in her kitchen when she crept back in at seven in the morning.”

Nick flushed and dropped his gaze. “Yeah,” he muttered.

“And?”

Nick shrugged. “And nothing.” He sighed. “I thought... Well, to be honest, I thought we were back on. But she was gone when I woke up and I haven’t heard from her since.”

Strike sighed. “I’m sorry, mate,” he said quietly. Nick nodded, not trusting himself to speak suddenly. He took a gulp of his pint to try to swallow the lump in his throat.

“So what’s next?”

Nick shrugged. “I think she’s made her feelings clear,” he said, bitterness colouring his words. “When a woman you sleep with is gone when you wake up, that’s a pretty firm message.”

Strike rubbed a large hand across his face. “Maybe,” he conceded. “But maybe it’s just a miscommunication.”

Nick snorted. “I don’t think there’s much room for interpretation. She left before I woke. Either it was just a one-night stand for the hell of it, or she regretted it.”

“Come on, we both know Ilsa better than that,” Strike admonished him. “She’s not the type to cheat on someone just for a casual hook-up. I’m surprised she did it at all.”

Nick thought about this. So was he, if he was honest. It was out of character for Ilsa. So why had she done it?

He shrugged. “Either way, if she left it’s because she regretted it.”

“Maybe so.” Strike pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it. “But why?”

Nick glared at him. He didn’t particularly want to delve into the reasons why the woman he desperately wanted back in his life would regret spending the night with him. “How am I supposed to know? I’ve made it pretty clear I want her. But she left, and she’s still engaged.”

“Have you, though?”

“Have I what?”

“Made it clear? You sure she knows?”

Nick shrugged again. “I think so.”

“I think so won’t cut it. You finished it last time, mate. You need to be open that you want her back permanently, and why. If you want her to leave an engagement, you have to be crystal clear what you’re offering.”

“But—”

“Use words. Make it abundantly clear.” Strike fixed him with a stern stare.

Nick shifted uncomfortably and nodded. “I’ll go round and talk to her.”

“Good. Another pint?”

“Please.”


	16. Stay

Even though she had half expected to see him when the doorbell rang, Ilsa jumped a little to see Nick standing there on the street. He looked nervous, and also tired. He looked like shit, in fact.

She gazed at him, heart hammering, suddenly only able to remember his mouth on hers, his body over her, moving against her— Desire surged, and she cleared her throat, trying to banish the images. “What do you want?”

The harshness of her tone stung so hard, he nearly gave up on the spot. But he’d come this far. “Can we talk?”

She nodded, and stood back to let him in. Wordlessly he stepped past her into the kitchen.

“Tea?”

Nick turned back to look at her, and nodded, mute. He couldn’t think of anything he was less interested in right now than a cup of tea, but he didn’t want to look churlish and start off on the wrong foot.

Ilsa moved to put the kettle on. She was radiating tension. Nick could hear the burble of the television from the little living room.

“What are you watching?”

Ilsa shrugged. “Corm’s here, they’re watching a film. I was kind of watching too, but it wasn’t really my thing.”

Nick’s heart sank. He’d been hoping to have her to himself, space to talk. The girls’ flat wasn’t huge, and now there were four of them in it.

Ilsa was assembling mugs, tea bags, and wishing she could have a glass of wine instead. When had things become so strained with her and Nick that she wished for a drink to take the edge off the awful tension? She poured boiling water, squeezed tea bags, added milk, and all the while he stood on the other side of the room, watching her, not saying anything.

She turned back to him with the mugs, and glanced through to the lounge. She could see Strike’s long legs extended in front of the sofa, one of Claire’s idly thrown over them. They were close enough to overhear anything said in the kitchen if they wanted to.

“Let’s talk in my room,” she said, and Nick nodded. They moved down the short hallway to Ilsa’s door.

“Could you...?” she gestured, a mug in each hand, and he reached past her to open the door, careful not to touch her. Nevertheless, he could smell her hair, the soft scent of her shampoo that still lingered a little on his pillow at home, and his heart twisted miserably. He’d know, soon enough, what their future held.

They entered Ilsa’s room and she set the mugs down on her bedside table. She sat down on the edge of the bed, stiff and awkward, while Nick closed the door quietly behind them and turned to face her.

She was composed and closed off, her face expressionless, and a deep, aching sadness swept over him. How had they come to this?

“What are we doing, Ils?” he asked quietly.

She dropped her gaze. “You tell me.”

He moved across to sit next to her on the bed. Ilsa twisted her hands in her lap and looked at them.

“Look at me, please,” he murmured, and she raised her eyes to his.

Nick opened his mouth to speak, but realised he had no idea what to say, how to start, where to start. He stared at her helplessly for a long minute, wishing she’d say something, wishing he could focus when her clear blue-green gaze was cutting into him, staring right into his innermost thoughts. He wished that he could concentrate on anything other than the siren call of being near her, of wanting to kiss her and bury himself in her and just love her and not think about the mess they were making of everything else.

She felt it too, he could see it. The magnetic pull that had always existed between them. He saw the desire in her eyes, and before he’d realised he was going to do it, he was kissing her.

She responded at once, moaning into his mouth and pressing closer, and suddenly his arms were around her and they rolled back onto the bed together, kissing, hands exploring.

They were at an awkward angle where they had fallen back onto the bed. Nick pulled himself up over her, seeking a better position, pressing her body into the bed with his, arousal rising swiftly as they kissed, groaning a little into her mouth as she pulled at him.

Suddenly she stilled, shrinking away beneath him, and he drew back in consternation as he realised she was crying.

“Ilsa—” he murmured, pulling away to lie next to her, tugging her to him, wrapping his arms around her. For once she didn’t pull away, melting into him, sobbing into his chest. “What is it?”

“I can’t do this again,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, Nick, I can’t. I can’t keep cheating on Pete with you, it’s not fair on either of you.”

He held her while she cried, properly cried. For long minutes she couldn’t speak, and Nick waited, his heart twisted with grief that he had brought her to this. He stroked her hair softly and gradually her sobs eased. She didn’t stop crying, though, just now she was weeping quietly. Nick thought that might be worse.

Eventually she drew shuddering breaths, managing to regain a little control. She reached for the pack of tissues on her bedside table and mopped herself up. Nick lay next to her, his hand resting gently on the flat of her stomach.

“I can’t work out what to do,” Ilsa said softly, finally. “Pete’s a good guy and he loves me. I can’t leave him for you if this is only... only messing about. But—”

Nick clung to her fiercely. “I’m not messing about,” he said. “I want you, Ils. I want all of you. I want you back. I should never have let you go.”

“Then why did you?” she wailed through fresh tears. She turned her head to look at him, her eyes searching his face. “How could you just dump me and go off to uni and never look back?”

Nick groaned and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“I didn’t dump you,” he said. “I didn’t think I had a right to hold onto you. I had to focus.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her, his heart wrenching at the sight of her tear-streaked face. He stroked her cheek with one finger.

“It broke my heart, leaving you,” he said softly. “I missed you every day for months and months. I didn’t date anyone else for over a year, I just worked and studied.”

Ilsa sighed. “Me neither,” she said. “And no one else ever matched up.”

There was a long pause. “Even Pete,” she admitted in a small voice.

“Is that what the other night was about?”

She pulled herself into a sitting position, and he sat up too. “What are you talking about?”

He’d told himself he could discuss this rationally, but traitorous tears were pricking at the back of his eyes. “You left.” He couldn’t keep the wobble out of his voice. “It made it seem like...like you didn’t care. I thought maybe you were just, you know, getting me out of your system, or saying goodbye or something. Closing the door.”

Ilsa sighed and looked down. “I told myself that’s what I was doing,” she said. “I didn’t think you wanted me.”

He gazed at her, hazel eyes seeking blue-green. “How could you not think I wanted you? I’ve texted, gone out with you, kissed you—”

Ilsa shrugged, pulling her gaze from his, picking up her mug and taking a gulp of lukewarm tea. “I thought maybe you just wanted sex. It’s all you’ve got with Sian.”

Nick sighed, frustrated. “That’s totally different. And over.” He reached for his mug too.

She looked shocked. “Over?”

“I finished it right after the night I kissed you.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “You kissed me back. I thought we might have a chance. I wanted to be available.”

Ilsa gazed at him in wonder, shaking her head. “I didn’t think you wanted me,” she said again. “And I was scared of the way I felt about you. That’s why I couldn’t stay that morning. If you had just said “thanks” or “see you around” or something, it would have broken me.”

Nick sighed. “I was going to try to convince you to come back to me for good,” he admitted. “But then you were gone, and I assumed you regretted it. You are engaged.”

She dropped her eyes again. “I did, a bit. What a mess,” she murmured. Nick nodded.

There was a pause. Ilsa sipped her tea.

“So what now?” Nick asked quietly.

She looked at him uncertainly. “What do you want?”

“You,” he said simply, and tears filled her eyes again. “Whatever we can work out, however you want it to be, I just want you.” He swallowed hard. “I can’t do it again, Ils. I can’t get over you again. I can’t learn to live without you again.”

A tear spilled onto Ilsa’s cheek. “Me neither,” she whispered. She gazed at him, searching his face, and he let her, let her see his pain, what he was feeling. Eventually she dropped her eyes back to her mug.

For a few minutes they drank tepid tea in silence, sat next to one another on the bed.

Ilsa set her mug back on her bedside table and looked up at him. “Give me time, Nick,” she asked softly. “Let me sort my stuff out first, sort out Pete. I owe him that at least. And then we can maybe...see what happens.”

He nodded, and leaned across to return his mug to the bedside table too. Her hand slid to his knee, and he turned back to her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, hugging him tight. Nick buried his face in her hair, his hand on her back rubbing soft circles, and breathed her.

Eventually he pulled away gently. “I should go,” he said, sitting back.

“Stay,” she whispered. He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. She flushed a little.

“Just to hold me,” she said. “Please?” Her hand on his forearm tightened, clinging to him.

He hesitated, then nodded slowly.

Getting into bed was awkward. Ilsa took her pyjamas, blushing, and disappeared to the bathroom to change. Nick stripped down to his T shirt and boxers and climbed into the bed. She came back and crawled in with him, wrapping her arms around him, her head on his shoulder.

Nick hugged her gently, willing his body to behave itself as the scent of her hair filled his nostrils. Exhausted from crying, she fell asleep almost at once, but he lay awake for some time, holding her and hoping.


	17. Strike and Ilsa

Nick woke early in the morning, as he’d hoped and prayed he would, knowing there was a higher than usual chance of a morning erection with Ilsa in the bed next to him, and not wanting her to wake to that under their current circumstances. He rolled quietly away from her and took himself off to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and take some deep breaths.

He heard footsteps padding along the hall as he finished emptying his bladder and flushed the toilet. He hoped it was Ilsa and not Claire waiting for the bathroom while he washed his hands.

Nick opened the door. Waiting politely a few steps away was Strike. His eyebrows shot up, and Nick blushed.

“Don’t,” he muttered, as Strike grinned wickedly at him. “It’s really not what it looks like.”

Strike snorted and disappeared into the bathroom and Nick returned to Ilsa’s room. She was awake and half dressed, wearing a work skirt and bra, just pulling on a blouse. He hurriedly dragged his eyes away from the smooth skin of her stomach, the swell of her breasts in the plain white bra that did nothing to take away from her sexiness. She swiftly did up the buttons, not looking at him.

“Oggy saw me,” Nick said, reaching for his trousers. Ilsa shrugged, unconcerned. “He’s discreet,” she said.

There was a slightly strained silence as they dressed. Then Ilsa turned to face him.

“Give me some time,” she said, softly. “I’ll call you.”

“Okay,” he said, and kissed her forehead, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms. “I’m just going to go.”

She nodded, and he put on his shoes and went quietly down the hall and let himself out of the flat.

Ilsa went to put the coffee on. Soon Strike emerged from Claire’s room, dressed. Claire followed behind him in her dressing gown, yawning, heading for the shower.

Strike poured himself a coffee and sat opposite Ilsa at the table. He regarded her impassively.

She smiled at him. “I know you saw Nick,” she said.

He nodded. “I haven’t told Claire.”

Ilsa waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll tell her,” she said. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Nothing happened. This time,” she clarified, blushing. “But...I do have some sorting out to do.”

Strike waited.

“I’m going to finish with Pete,” she said quietly, “and see how things go with Nick.”

Strike grunted. “Good,” he said. “Right call. The man’s absolutely crazy about you.” He got up and took his coffee with him to smoke on the doorstep, leaving Ilsa sat at the table, smiling softly.


	18. Goodbye Pete

In the end, Ilsa decided it was better to be as honest as possible with Pete. She sat him down that evening and told him as much of the truth as she could without hurting him unnecessarily. She told him that she’d bumped into her first love, that there was still something there, that she didn’t think she should marry him as long as she could still harbour feelings for someone else.

It was a tough conversation. They both cried. Ilsa’s heart twisted with guilt for the way she’d behaved, but she knew she couldn’t marry him. He deserved more than she could give him. She gave him back the ring. Pete left and Ilsa texted Claire, who had discreetly gone out grocery shopping and was waiting in the late night cafe up the road.

Claire returned with wine, ice cream, chocolate, crisps and a multipack of tissues, and Ilsa giggled through her tears as her flatmate lined these items up on the table.

“Where do we start?” she asked, wiping her eyes.

“Oh, I think for a broken engagement we open them all at once,” Claire said, sticking two spoons in the ice cream tub and pouring generous glasses of wine.

They sat up until one in the morning, talking about men and eating ice cream and crisps until they both felt slightly sick. Claire tactfully didn’t mention Nick, respecting Ilsa’s unspoken wish to try to maintain a boundary between the relationship she was finishing and the relationship she had almost started. Tonight was about the end of the one, not the start of the other. So they talked about men in general, and Ilsa reminisced about how sweet Pete was.

“He’ll make someone a good husband,” she said warmly. “Just not me.”

“You still have to work with him,” Claire reminded her, and Ilsa nodded.

“It’s a big firm, though,” she said. “Hopefully it won’t be too awkward. I don’t think he’s the kind of guy to hold a grudge. He was pretty understanding, considering.”

She sighed. “He’s such a lovely guy,” she said. “I really hope this turns out to be the right decision in the long run.”

“It will,” Claire said firmly. “Even if it doesn’t work out with Nick, Pete wasn’t your Mr Right.”

“I know.” Ilsa looked sad for a moment. “Guess it’s time to open the chocolate now,” she said, and Claire laughed and obliged. She broke the huge bar into squares and laid it on the table between them, the wrapper opened out to form a makeshift plate.

Ilsa looked at her. “How’s it going with you and Corm?” she asked.

“Good, yeah,” Claire said. “We both know where we stand. He’ll be gone to Portsmouth soon, and I’m not flogging all the way down there to get laid, good though he is.” She winked. “So we’ve got the time we’ve got, and we’ll move on. Suits me.”

Ilsa laughed. “I love that you can be so relaxed about it,” she said.

“Yeah,” Claire said. “When I meet the guy who moves my soul, I’ll take it seriously. But I haven’t found him yet, and I’m in no hurry!”

Ilsa smiled softly into her wine and said nothing.

...

Two days. Two days since he’d crept out of Ilsa and Claire’s house in the early morning, and nothing. Nick sighed.

Memories of his recent night with Ilsa filled his mind. It had been sweet torture, to have her in his arms, wrapped around him just as she used to, her hair in his face and her curves pressed against him, and to have to behave himself. Especially when they had so recently spent a very different night together. His body ached for her, longed for her, remembered exactly what it felt like to be with her and the pleasure he had only ever experienced with her. Their encounter last week had been fast, explosive. He wanted to make love to her, take his time, explore every inch of her.

His heart was filled with a hope that he tried to ignore. She had said she would end things with the fiancé, that they might see where things could go between them. But she must have been with the other guy for some time, must to some degree have been in love with him. What if, the other night, she had just been carried away in the moment, and when it came down to it she decided she wanted to stay with the guy who was a safe bet? A fellow lawyer, someone who hadn’t hurt her and dumped her and lost touch with her. Someone who had presumably met all her friends, been to Cornwall and met her family—

Nick groaned and threw his covers off, rising to go and dig out his running gear. Time to work off some excess energy and banish some demons.


	19. Nick and Strike

“You really spent the whole night in bed with her and didn’t shag her?” Strike asked. “That must have been...hard.” He sniggered into his pint.

Nick glared at him. “Don’t be coarse,” he said. “It wasn’t about that.”

“Well, what was it, then?” his friend asked.

Nick shrugged. “We were sort of hooking up, nearly,” he said. “But she wants time to talk to Pete first and get that straightened out. But she asked me to stay so we just slept. It was good, actually. Just to be with her, to hold her.”

Strike rolled his eyes. “Oh, my God, you’re in love,” he teased. Nick flushed and didn’t reply.

Strike laughed. “Good,” he said. “Because I kept out of it last time, but Ilsa’s like a sister to me. If you break her heart again, you’ll have me to answer to.” He was only half joking, and they both knew it. Strike well remembered seeing Ilsa that Christmas holidays of their first year at university. He’d been shocked at how thin she’d become, how quiet. He’d never told Nick.

“So what’s next?” Strike went on, lighting a cigarette.

“She said to give her time, said she’d call. That was days ago, and nothing,” Nick said, worried creases appearing round his eyes. “Maybe she’s having trouble breaking off with the fiancé. Maybe...” He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. _Maybe she’s changed her mind._

Strike, who knew from Claire that Ilsa had ended her engagement that very night, said nothing. He wouldn’t blame Ilsa for letting Nick stew a little. She wasn’t cruel. She’d call when she was ready.

...

“I’m going to text him,” Ilsa said.

“Finally!” Claire cried, laughing and clapping her hands. “You’ve made him wait long enough.”

“It hasn’t even been a week,” Ilsa said. “This time last week I was engaged to another man. I’m not leaping straight in. He can wait, show some commitment.”

“Hah, let’s see how long that lasts,” Claire said, giggling. “You’re as horny for him as he is for you.”

Ilsa giggled too. “Probably,” she said. “But I want to get it right this time. There’s plenty of time. I want to take it slow.”

Claire snorted and said no more.

...

Nick raked his hands through his hair. It was torture, waiting for the call that never came.

“Still nothing?” Strike asked, drawing on his cigarette.

Nick sighed and shook his head. “Still nothing.”


	20. The Date

Despite obsessively checking his phone several times an hour, Nick was startled when the text from Ilsa came through. It was oddly factual, a simple invitation to see a film the following evening. He replied at once, offering to get the tickets.

He arrived on time the next evening at her door to walk her to the cinema. She was casually dressed in jeans and a striped top, her make-up carefully done but understated. The engagement ring was gone.

Heart hammering, Nick told her she looked lovely, and she smiled and thanked him. They strolled to the cinema, chatting.

He knew he was being over-solicitous in the foyer, offering to get her popcorn, a drink, valiantly trying to chat about this and that. For reasons he couldn’t put his finger on, he desperately wanted this evening to be perfect. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, being nervous and off-balance on a date, having always had the easy confidence to chat away.

Ilsa appeared to enjoy the film, a historical drama. Nick barely heard a word. He was acutely aware of her sat next to him, and he wasn’t quite sure how to behave. He’d been kind of assuming that they would go to the pub, that there would be a little alcohol to make things easier, that they’d talk. He’d hoped that there would be snogging and, if he was honest, sex. This wasn’t what he had expected at all, and he suspected she knew that.

He tentatively took her hand at one point and she let him, allowing her hand to be held, squeezing his fingers affectionately. Five minutes later she withdrew it to eat her popcorn and didn’t return it, and somehow Nick didn’t care to try again.

After the film Nick suggested a drink, but Ilsa said she had a long day at work tomorrow and she’d rather go home. He walked her back to her flat and she kissed him on the cheek - warm and lingering, but on the cheek, her arm loosely hugging him - and said goodnight and went inside. Nick stood on the doorstep for a few moments, and then turned and went home.

...

Dinner finished, Strike and Claire left the restaurant and strolled down the street. He dropped an arm over her shoulders. “Come back to mine for the night?” he said.

“Mine’s closer,” Claire replied. “And I’ve got work files I need to take in tomorrow.”

“Aren’t Ilsa and Nick finally out tonight?” Strike asked. “Shouldn’t we, ah, give them some space?”

Claire giggled. “Oh, trust me, Nick’s not getting laid tonight,” she said.

Strike looked at her sideways. “Is he not?”

Claire shook her head. “He’s going to have to put the work in this time,” she said. “Though between you and me, I’m not sure how long Ilsa will hold out. But don’t tell him I said that.”

Strike laughed. _Good on her,_ he thought.


	21. Banter

Strike paid for the pints and carried them over to the table Nick had bagged. The pub was busy. He set the pints down and went to find an ashtray.

Settled at last, cigarette lit, he grinned at his friend. “So, how did it go with Ilsa?” he asked, and roared with laughter at Nick’s look of frustration.

“It didn’t,” Nick said crossly. “We went to the cinema and actually watched the film. She let me hold her hand for five minutes, and I got a kiss on the cheek when I dropped her off.”

“Sounds very pleasant,” Strike said, still grinning.

Nick glared at him. “No conversation about where we’re going, and no snog,” he said. “I can’t work out what’s going on at all.”

“Come on, mate, you can’t blame her for being wary,” Strike said. “It didn’t end well last time. Maybe she wants to take it slow.”

“There’s a difference between moving slowly and not moving at all,” Nick said.

Strike just grinned at him and said no more.

...

“You really didn’t even snog him?” Claire asked, incredulous. She was sat on the chair in their living room. Ilsa was lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

“Oh, God, I couldn’t,” Ilsa said. “I’d never have stopped once I started.”

Claire laughed. “I knew you’d never be able to hold out long,” she said with a wink.

Ilsa grinned. “I know,” she said. “Since that night it’s all I can think about every time I’m anywhere near him. It was making me horny just holding his hand!”

“Oh, just shag him,” Claire said, still laughing.

Ilsa rolled to face her, earnest suddenly. “But I wanted to take it slow, this time,” she said. “Get it right.”

Claire looked thoughtful. “If he’s the right guy, I don’t think you can get it wrong, can you? Not this time?”

“I need to know he’s serious,” Ilsa said. “I don’t want to fall back into bed with him and then lose him all over again.”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, somehow,” she reassured her.

Ilsa shrugged a little. “Maybe not,” she replied. “But, you know, it’s also...” She tailed off.

“Also what?” Claire raised a curious eyebrow.

“Well, you know,” Ilsa replied, a cheeky smile stealing across her face. “He’s always been so... I don’t know, Claire. He swept me off my feet the first time we met, and he kind of did the same this time too, even though he wasn’t so obvious about it because of Pete. But—” She paused, and shot her friend a sideways look. “Is it wrong of me to be enjoying being in charge, keeping him guessing just a little bit?”

Claire grinned. “Not at all.”

Ilsa giggled a little. “I quite like it. You know, let him know what it’s like for once to be not completely sure what the other person’s thinking. I think I’ve probably strung him along enough now, though.”

Claire nodded. “Ithink you two will both be much happier when you’re just settled back into being you guys again,” she said warmly. “It’s obvious you’ve missed him for years.”

“I have,” Ilsa replied softly. “And he said he has too.”

“There you go, then.”

“Yeah.”

Ilsa paused, gazing into space for a moment. “I guess it’s time, then.”


	22. The Speech

Nick left it a day, and then texted Ilsa and suggested another drink and a walk. He was almost surprised when she agreed to meet him that evening.

The walk was shorter, quieter than the ones previously. Nick was lost in thought. He knew he had to talk to her, say what was in his heart, but how? Strolling along the street didn’t seem the right place, nor did a noisy pub.

Ilsa was surprised how early it was when they circled back to her flat. She was starting to worry that she’d made too much effort to keep things platonic. Was he just going to drop her off and go home again? Did she want that?

On the doorstep, Nick paused, hesitant. He looked almost afraid. Ilsa waited, wondering what he was going to say.

“Look...” Nick began, and stopped. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and started again. “Can I come in? Just to talk,” he added hastily. “I want to talk to you.”

“Sure,” Ilsa said, her heart fluttering, and let them both in. Mercifully, Claire was out. She made mugs of tea and they sat at the kitchen table.

Nick hesitated, looked down. How to start? How to explain everything that was in his heart and head?

She was watching him calmly, waiting. _Don’t mess this up,_ he thought. _Last time you did this, you had a whole rehearsed speech and you broke her heart. This has got to be different._

He looked at her, so beautiful, so strong and vulnerable, her blue-green eyes watching him from behind her glasses, hopeful and afraid at the same time.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “I’ve always loved you.”

Ilsa stared at him for a long minute. “Is that it?” she asked, finally.

Nick was taken aback. “That’s not enough?”

“No, I mean... I was expecting a speech.” She felt tearful suddenly. Maybe it really was just that simple.

Nick dropped his eyes. “Turns out I’m not very good at those,” he muttered to his mug of tea.

Ilsa made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, her eyes full of tears. “That’s true,” she said.

There was a small pause, and he raised his eyes hesitantly back to hers. She was smiling softly at him, tears still in her eyes.

“I love you too,” she whispered. He reached across the table for her hand and squeezed it tightly.

“I’m so sorry I messed it all up before, six years ago,” he said. “I’d worked so hard to get into med school, and I knew I was going to have to work my arse off to get through. They don’t get many students from rough Hackney comprehensives, it’s all grammar schools. I had a lot of work to do to even keep up. And we were going to be so far apart for so long, it just didn’t seem right to hold onto you when we were so young.” He looked down at his mug again. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said quietly.

Ilsa squeezed his hand in return. “I see that now,” she said. “You just didn’t explain it very well at the time.”

He grimaced. “I know,” he said. “I had it all worked out, what I needed to say, but I didn’t think I could get through it without crying, and I messed it up and probably didn’t make much sense.”

Ilsa squeezed his hand again, touched by his admission. “No,” she agreed. “And to be honest, I didn’t hear many of the actual words. All I could hear was that you were finishing with me, when I’d thought...”

She trailed off and looked away, examining the pattern on the tiles behind the sink. “I thought I’d met my soulmate,” she said quietly. “And then I just felt so stupid, like clearly you knew what was what, you’d...been with other girls, maybe you knew that what we had wasn’t all that special after all and it was all in my head.”

Nick groaned and grabbed her other hand, clutching both of her hands in his now. “What we had, it was special, Ils,” he said. “No one else has ever come close. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

She gave him a tremulous smile, unshed tears in her eyes again now. “Nor me you,” she said softly. “Just don’t hurt me again.” It was more plea than command.

He got up and went round the table, dropping to kneel on the floor next to her chair and pull her into a hug. “Never,” he whispered, burying his face in her hair. She clung to him for a long minute.

“Anyway,” he went on finally, pulling back a little, a twinkle in his eye now. “I wouldn’t dare. I’ve been told in no uncertain terms I’ve got Oggy to answer to if I do. And he wasn’t joking.”

Ilsa giggled. “Bless him,” she said, wiping her eyes.

She looked at him, those clear blue green eyes searching right into his soul, and then she leaned forward and kissed him softly. They kissed for a long minute, just lip on lip, hovering between chaste and something more.

Trembling, Ilsa pulled back a little, her eyes finding his again. “Would you like to stay over?” she asked, a soft, cheeky smile stealing over her face.

“God, yes. Please,” he said, and she giggled. She nodded and stood, took his hand to pull him to his feet and lead him through to the bedroom. At the doorway she paused. “Hang on,” she said, and hurried back to her handbag. She grabbed her phone, tapped out a quick text and sent it, switched the phone off and dropped it back into her bag. Then she went back to Nick, pushed him into her room and shut the door behind them.

Across town, Claire pulled her phone out of her pocket, flipped it open and whooped. “Right, we’re at yours tonight,” she told Strike. “I’m not allowed to go home. She finally caved!”

Strike laughed.


	23. Dusk

There was a slightly awkward pause. Ilsa looked up at Nick, shy suddenly, and he smiled at her softly. “Come here,” he said quietly, and pulled her into his arms. He hugged her close and she laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart. It was pounding in his chest, as hers was too, and she giggled a little.

“What?” His voice was fond, amused.

“Your heart’s beating just as fast as mine.”

Nick chuckled and squeezed her a little tighter. “I don’t doubt it.”

Her arms crept around his back and pulled him closer still.

They hugged for a long minute. Nick kissed the top of her head softly, holding her gently. Then slowly, tenderly, he kissed across the top of her head and down towards her cheek. She raised her head for him, and he kissed down her cheek and across to her ear. She gave a sharp intake of breath as he kissed the soft skin just below it, his lips lingering, warm, caressing. He felt her shudder against him and pulled her closer.

He let go of the hug and moved his hands to the sides of her face. Gently he removed her glasses and put them on the bedside table. He cupped her jaw, tilting her head up gently so he could kiss her mouth. He pressed kisses, chaste at first, to her lips until she moaned a little and opened her mouth to him. Her tongue slid forward to meet his, and he pressed closer, deepening the kiss, his mouth opening over hers.

They kissed and kissed, heat slowly building and coiling around them, and then Ilsa drew back just enough to suck on his lower lip, pulling it into her mouth and biting down gently.

Despite how he’d anticipated for this moment, how much he’d wanted it, Nick was unprepared for the way desire erupted within him, blazing fiercely suddenly. He groaned, his hands sliding into her hair to pull her closer, kissing her harder, his hips pushing forward and seeking hers, and she pressed back into him. He could feel her trembling against him, her arms around him clinging to him, her fingers biting into the muscles of his back through his shirt. He kissed her until she broke away, gasping, to breathe, and then he ran sucking kisses along her jawline, fierce and hot, and buried his face in her neck. He licked at the hollow where her neck joined her shoulder and she moaned softly.

Shuddering, he pulled back. He’d wanted, after their frantic encounter the other week, to take things slower tonight. This, rather than that night, somehow felt like the reunion proper. But he was already doubting his ability to withstand the heat that always flared between them.

His eyes sought hers, seeking reassurance that she was still on board, still wanting to go further. She met his gaze, her eyes dark with desire, and brought her hands round between them and began to undo his shirt buttons with trembling fingers.

Nick captured her mouth with his again and kissed her as she undressed him, pushing his shirt off his shoulders. He pulled his arms free, the shirt dropping to the floor, and his fingers found the hem of her top and pulled it up. She broke free of the kiss to let him remove her top over her head, and then she slid her arms around his naked back, pulling his chest against hers. Her breasts pressed against his skin, only the sheer cotton of her bra between their bodies, and he moaned at the feel of her. He pulled back a little and bent to kiss her shoulder and run kisses down across her chest, his tongue finding the edge of her bra and tracing along it. She arched her back to allow him better access, her hands grabbing at his hair and her head dropping back.

His mouth closed over her nipple through her bra and she cried out softly, sagging against him as her knees buckled. He sucked and nibbled at the hard nub, and her soft cries turned to moans, an ache clenching deep within her. “Nick...” she gasped, and it gave him a fierce thrill of pleasure to hear his name moaned from her lips.

Wobbly, she pulled him towards the bed, her hands going to his waistband to undo his belt and trousers. “Too many clothes,” she murmured, and he helped her, pulling his trousers down and then cursing as he realised he was still wearing his shoes.

Ilsa giggled and stepped back a little, kicking off her own shoes and dragging her jeans off as he removed his shoes, socks and trousers, and then pulled her back to him. His erection, no longer held in check by his trousers, thrust against the cotton of his boxers and she rubbed herself against it, drawing a cry of need from him.

“Fuck, Ils,” he managed, pulling her closer and grinding against her, painfully hard, aching for her. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone else.”

She hummed against his chest where she was running kisses across him, her teeth grazing against his nipple, one hand moving from around his back so she could drag her fingers through his sandy blond chest hair. “Me neither.”

She pulled him down onto the bed now, sliding over so that he could lie next to her, tangling her legs with his. They kissed and kissed again for a while, bodies pressed together, arms and legs tangled, just enjoying the feel of each other’s lips and skin. Then Nick’s hands moved to the clasp of her bra.

“May I?” he murmured huskily, and she nodded, eager. He undid her bra and pulled it gently from her, and drew back a little to gaze at her. She dipped her head, suddenly shy, even though he had seen her again recently. Nick reached out a hand and traced the outline of each breast with a reverent finger.

“I forgot how beautiful you are,” he said hoarsely, amazed, stroking gentle fingertips across her skin and watching as goosebumps followed in his wake. Ilsa moaned a little and arched her back, her chest pressing forwards towards him, and his fingertips moved to brush across her nipple. She cried out in pleasure, and he did it again, and again, gently stroking until she was gasping and shaking with desire. Her hips bucked against his, rubbing against his aching cock, and he groaned deeply.

He bent his head to take her nipple into his mouth, and she moaned and sank back against the pillows. He arched over her, still caressing her nipple with his tongue, and his hand slid down across the skin of her stomach, fingertips finding the waistband of her knickers and sliding along, the tip of one finger just dipping under the elastic. She had one arm around his neck now, her fingers clutching at his back, and the other crept down to the front of his boxers. She traced the hard outline of his erection with her fingertips, and he groaned again, thrusting against her hand.

“Oh, God, Nick, I don’t think I can do slow any more,” Ilsa suddenly said. “I want you too much. Get your pants off.”

Grunting in agreement, Nick pulled his boxers off while she wriggled out of her knickers. Her hand found his erection again at once, closing around it, and he gave a low cry, thrusting involuntarily into the tightness of her hand as she squeezed. His hand slid down her stomach, caressing down further, fingers exploring, but before he’d gone further than a couple of gentle strokes, she was gasping and pulling at his hips, urging him onto her and over her.

Nick rolled gently on top of her, positioning himself against her, his eyes seeking hers. She gazed up at him, nodding at the question in his eyes, pulling at his hips.

Suddenly Nick was transported back to their first time, in her spare bedroom at home in Cornwall. Everything had been so simple then, they were young and in love and she’d trusted him utterly. He remembered the look in her eyes as she lay beneath him, trusting him to be gentle, wanting him. He remembered the tight feel of her, the stab of guilt he’d felt as her breath hitched a little in pain, but she’d urged him on when he wanted to pull back. He’d been overwhelmed by her complete faith in him, felt unworthy of it.

He hesitated now, overcome suddenly by the moment, and she waited with him, understanding, reaching up to kiss him. He kissed her softly, sweetly on the mouth. “I love you,” he whispered, and then slowly, surely, he thrust into her.

Ilsa’s head dropped back with a deep groan of pleasure as he filled her. Her legs came up to wrap around his waist, and her arms pulled him closer. Nick paused, almost overwhelmed by pleasure at the feel of her all around him, her heat. He held still, shuddering a little, for a moment and then began to move against her, setting a gentle rhythm, afraid of losing control too soon if he went too fast. She was making soft sounds of pleasure, sighing against him as he moved, and emotion almost overwhelmed him suddenly. It felt so right, so perfect, to be making love to her, to have her all around him and open to him, heart and body. Shuddering, he thrust deeper, and the guttural groan he drew from her made his own pleasure pulse. Their rhythm became faster, and she was gasping against him now, her hands clenching and unclenching on his back, pulling at him. He buried his face in her neck, thrusting his hips hard to hers, pushing deeper still, and suddenly she cried out, curling up into him and contracting around him as she came, crying his name and clutching him to her. With a wordless cry he joined her, hips stuttering against hers as he jerked within her, drawing out her orgasm with the pulses of his own. Gasping, he collapsed against her and she held onto him, shaking and shuddering.

Nick clung to her, his head still buried in her shoulder, quivering with the aftershocks. A wave of emotion swept over him as she shook beneath him, consuming him with the significance of the moment. His arms tightened around her shoulders and a sob escaped him before he could stop it, and then another. Ilsa wrapped her arms tighter around him, her hands finding his head, clutching him to her fiercely, and he realised she was crying too. He raised his head to hers and kissed her, tongues and tears combining, bodies still twined together, and then he drew back and rested his forehead on hers, drawing shaky breaths, slowly coming back down to earth.

“I love you,” Ilsa whispered. Nick had no idea how much time had passed. He smiled softly, kissed her gently. “I love you too.” He drew back from her slowly, and dropped down onto the bed next to her, pulling her close, arms and legs wrapped around her. “I’m never letting you go again. Never.”

Ilsa smiled softly against his chest and breathed him, and held him while he fell asleep in her arms.


	24. Dawn

When Ilsa next woke, Nick was gone, and she blinked, confused. She sat up, pushing her hair from her eyes, squinting at her watch on the bedside table. It was early, only just light.

Surely he couldn’t have left, after the night they’d just shared? But before she could start to worry, she heard the flush of the toilet, and then her sleepy brain caught up, her eyes seeing his clothes scattered across the floor, his shoes kicked off by the door, his coat slung across the chair. His boxers lying next to her knickers.

Of course he wouldn’t have left. They were back together now, properly. Last night had been only the beginning. Nick had woken her in the deep of the night to make love to her again, clutching her to him, urgent and insistent, as though he couldn’t believe she was really there. Yet still Ilsa found herself hoping another round would be on the cards. She never could get enough of him, of the pleasure they shared.

Grinning, she hunkered back down under the duvet, and soon he was entering the room, stark naked. Her eyes drank him in shamelessly as he approached the bed, roving across his body, and he stopped, stood and let her look, smiling. He was still lean and fit, his legs muscular. There was more hair on his chest now, which she had enjoyed exploring. His shoulders were still strong, his arms slim but his biceps defined.

Her eyes found his and he winked. “Finished?”

Ilsa blushed and nodded, and then squeaked as he reached out and grabbed the duvet, flipping it back. “My turn, then.”

Pink-cheeked, Ilsa lay back and let him look. She wondered if he liked what he saw. She had changed too, she knew, softer these days, a little curvier. His eyes moved across her slowly, drinking her in and she grinned, blushing harder, as his cock began to stir and swell. He obviously did like what he saw.

He met her cheeky gaze and climbed into bed, pulling the duvet up over them again. “Too early to get up,” he murmured, sliding his hands across her skin.

Ilsa grinned. “Definitely.”

“It smells of sex in here.”

“That’s hardly surprising. Open the window?”

Nick kissed her languorously, then climbed back out of bed and padded to the window and opened it a little. Ilsa took the opportunity of him walking away from her to shamelessly admire his arse. That was more defined too, these days.

Fresh air and the distant sound of London traffic drifted in. Shivering a little, Nick returned to the bed and cosied up under the duvet next to her again.

He stroked her skin for a while, his hand caressing her stomach. “It’s...been a lot of years,” he murmured at last.

“It has.” Her eyes sought his. “But that’s okay?”

He nodded. “I guess it has to be. I thought about looking you up over the years, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to.”

Ilsa nodded. “I might not have done,” she acknowledged. “I was pretty pissed off for a while.”

“I don’t blame you.”

He hesitated a moment. “Did you ever think about looking me up?”

Ilsa shrugged. “Honestly? Not really. Maybe occasionally when I was drunk. I used to quiz Corm about how you were sometimes. But you ended it, remember? It would only have been for closure that I’d have got in touch, I didn’t think you wanted me. And that wasn’t a good enough reason.”

Nick sighed and pulled her close. “I’m so, so sorry, Ils.”

“I know.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “It’s okay. We were way too young.”

“I never stopped wanting you, missing you. Not really. I tried to convince myself I was overthinking it, that it was just young love, but I always kind of knew I was lying to myself.”

Ilsa pulled him closer, sliding her leg over his. “Me too. But here we are now.” Her hands moved to his backside, pulling him against her. “Your arse is sexier,” she told him. “And your legs.”

He grinned. “I run.”

“Do you? That’s new.”

He nodded. “I try to go every other day. Cardiovascular, you know.” Ilsa nodded. “I ran the London Marathon last year. In three and a half hours,” he couldn’t help adding, knowing he was showing off a bit but rather enjoying her admiration.

His ego liked how impressed she was. “Wow,” she murmured, her hands still exploring his backside. “No wonder it’s sexier.”

He growled a little and pressed his groin to hers. “Better make the most of it. Not that I’m going anywhere.”

Ilsa hummed, rocking her hips against his growing erection. “Me neither. We can make up for lost time, though.” And she kissed him, sliding her tongue into his mouth.

He was unhurried this morning, a sharp contrast to his desperate urgency of the middle of the night and their mutual need the previous evening. They took their time, exploring, properly reacquainting themselves with one another in the light of day. Nick kissed new freckles, buried himself in softer curves, remembered the way she moaned and arched when he mouthed her nipple just so. Ilsa explored new muscles, firm from regular exercise, and rediscovered the way he jerked and hissed when she dug her fingernails into his hips.

He encouraged her up and over him, glorying in observing her as she rocked against him, lazily finding her pleasure, not chasing it but letting it come to her. He watched, mesmerised, as the flush of arousal crept across her breasts and up her neck. His hand slid between them, his thumb finding her clit and gently stroking her over the edge, watching as her lip trembled and her head dropped back as her orgasm rolled though her.

Ilsa flopped down onto his chest, panting and grinning. “I’m totally spent,” she murmured. “You might have to do a bit of work here too, you know.”

Nick chuckled and wrapped his arms around her, rolling them both so that he was on top. He began to thrust, unhurried, pushing himself up a little so he could watch her and she could watch him. Ilsa enjoyed watching his pleasure build, seeing his eyes darken and his pupils widen, his jaw starting to go slack as his control began to falter. She rolled her hips the way she remembered he liked, and with a groan he came, pulsing into her, rocking, and then collapsing on top of her. Grinning, Ilsa held him close, feeling his heartbeat slow.

He shifted off her to lie next to her, panting, his hands still idly roaming over her. Quiet settled over them again for a few more minutes.

“We have a lot to catch up on.” Nick murmured.

“We do.” Ilsa stretched lazily. “Will your family be shocked that we’re back together?”

Nick chuckled. “They’ll be delighted. Mum and Dad loved you.”

She smiled. “And Dan must be, what, sixteen now?”

“Yup. Don’t see much of him, he’s always hunched over some console or other. When he’s not endlessly gaming, he’s either taking the things apart, or monopolising the family computer and tinkering with writing code. He tells me all about it and I don’t understand a word.” Nick grinned. “How’s your brother?”

“Yeah, good. I think Mum and Dad are still hoping he’ll settle at some point. He did history at uni, then went off to the States to study but dropped out and went travelling. He did a bit of South America too and then ran out of money and came home. He’s back living in Cornwall now, working in the pub and supposedly considering his options, but it’s been a year. Mum wants him to get what she calls a proper job.”

“What will your parents say about us?”

Ilsa hesitated. “I’m going to give that a bit of time,” she said slowly. She saw the shadow that passed across Nick’s face, and shook her head. “They’ll be glad, I promise,” she said, her fingers stroking his cheek. “I just... I left you out when I told them me and Pete split up. It was too hard to explain over the phone. So Mum is a bit mystified as to why I was apparently happily engaged a few weeks ago and am now happily single. She’s threatening to come up and visit, I think she thinks I’m having some kind of early midlife crisis.” She chuckled.

“Did they like Pete?” He regretted the words as soon they were out of his mouth. Ilsa looked at him curiously.

“Yeah,” she replied. No point dissembling. “He’s a nice guy, of course they liked him. But he wasn’t the right guy for me, and they respect that.”

Nick nodded, looking down, wishing he had kept his mouth shut, wishing that none of this had happened, wishing he had never finished the relationship, wishing things had just been different.

“Hey—” Ilsa said softly, her hand under his chin tilting his face to hers. “It’s okay.”

“I just wish—” He broke off, frustrated. His troubled hazel eyes gazed into her blue-green ones.

“I know. But what-ifs are pointless. We’re here now, and all that’s part of who we are. We were so young at eighteen. It’s better this way.”

Nick sighed and hoped he could learn to feel as sure of that as Ilsa did.

She smiled softly at him and slid her arm around him, pulling him close. “We’ll have to keep making up for lost time.”

He chucked, a deep, rich sound. “I thought that’s what I was doing.” His hands still stroked across her skin.

Ilsa giggled back at him. “Well, you can keep going.”

“I think I might need a nap first. How much sleep have we actually had?”

“Not much.” Ilsa snuggled in to him. He smelled glorious, warm and rich and sated and very much of musk and sex. “These bedclothes are definitely going to need changing tomorrow. Today.”

“Mm-hm.” He nuzzled into her neck. “I might not have finished with them yet though.”

Ilsa laughed, twisting away from his attentions. “Well, I certainly need a nap before I can go again. You’ve worn me out!”

He hummed against her temple and pulled her into his arms. “Let’s sleep, then.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

There was a pause.

“Nick?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I love you too.”

He chuckled sleepily. “I know.”


	25. Fluff

Ilsa had totally lost track of time. When she awoke again, it was fully light and she was hungry. Nick lay stretched out next to her, deeply asleep, naked and sated and relaxed. She smiled softly at the sight of him, then rolled away quietly, pulled on her dressing gown and went to put the kettle on.

To her surprise, Claire was in the kitchen, a pot of tea already on the table.

“I thought you stayed at Cormoran’s last night?” Ilsa asked, yawning, moving to the cupboard for a mug.

Claire grinned. “I did,” she said. Ilsa put her mug on the table and Claire poured her tea.

“You’re back early,” Ilsa said, sitting down and wrapping her hands round the mug. “Have we got any bread? Need toast, I’m starving.”

“It’s one o’clock, so no, I’m not,” Claire said, and laughed aloud at Ilsa’s shocked expression. “Good night, then?”

Ilsa grinned dreamily. “God, yes,” she said. “I thought I might have been remembering it as better than it was, but I wasn’t.”

Claire grinned wickedly. “Looks like it’s your turn to give all the gory details,” she said, standing up and moving to the toaster. She pulled two slices of bread from the packet next to it, put them in and set the toaster going, then turned back to face the table. “Go on, then,” she said.

Ilsa went pink. “I’m not quite as outspoken as you,” she said primly.

“Okay, I’ll ask questions. How many times?”

Ilsa went redder. “Three,” she confessed, and giggled as Claire squealed and clapped her hands. “Last night, and then he woke me at some point, it was still dark but it felt like I’d been asleep for a while. And then this morning when we first woke up. He’s still asleep now.”

Claire laughed. “I’m not surprised! You’ve worn the poor man out!” She saw Ilsa’s blushes and took pity on her. “Okay, I won’t ask any more,” she said. “What about the other stuff, the stuff you were worried about?”

Ilsa beamed. “All good,” she said. “He loves me. I love him. We’re good.”

Claire smiled. “Good,” she said. “I can stop grilling you. And worrying about you.” The toaster popped and she passed Ilsa a plate of toast and the butter, and watched fondly as her friend devoured two slices in quick succession.

“Right,” Ilsa said, refilling her tea and pouring one for Nick. “I’m going back to bed.”

Claire winked. “Keep the noise down,” she said. “There’s a film on this afternoon I want to watch.” Ilsa pulled a face at her and disappeared into her room and shut the door.

Nick hadn’t moved. She giggled fondly at him, put the mugs of tea on the bedside table, shed her dressing gown and slid back into bed next to him, naked. She pressed herself against his warmth and wrapped her arms around him and began to kiss his cheek and his jaw, enjoying the scrape of day-old stubble.

Nick woke slowly, grinning at her touches, and slid his arms around her. “Morning,” he said softly, hugging her close.

“Actually, it’s the afternoon,” Ilsa said, and giggled at the look on his face.

“That’ll be why I’m so hungry,” Nick replied. “You smell of toast.”

She grinned at him. “Claire made me some,” she said. “But I ate it all, sorry. There’s plenty of bread, though.”

“Let’s go out for breakfast. Well, lunch,” Nick said. “I need proper food, man food.”

Ilsa nodded, still smiling.

“Except I don’t ever want to leave this bed,” he went on, pulling her closer again and wrapping one leg over hers. She wriggled closer still and felt the stirring in his groin as he pressed against her.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were hungry?” she said, and he laughed. “Oh, I am,” he said, rolling onto her and pinning her beneath him.

Ilsa giggled again and wrapped her arms and legs around him. “You cannot possibly have the energy to go again.” But his cock, already half hard against her, suggested otherwise.

“Hey, I’m fit these days, remember? And I never could get enough of you,” he added, kissing her cheek and making his way towards her ear.

“Claire is just in the living room, literally through that wall,” she murmured as he began to rock his hips a little.

Nick pulled back and grinned at her. “Maybe we really should go out for food, then,” he said reluctantly. He lowered his head and kissed her, a kiss that started chaste but lingered and became something more. They kissed and kissed, and then he drew back and gazed down at her, so beautiful with her blonde hair across the pillow and her blue-green eyes gazing lovingly up at him.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly. Ilsa laughed.

“What, just like that?” she said. “After we’ve been back together five minutes?”

He looked at her seriously. “Just like that,” he said. “I’m not joking, Ils. I’m never letting you go again. Marry me.”

She stared up at him, shocked. “Oh, God, you’re serious,” she said softly. “But—”

“It’s simple,” he said. “I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of our lives.”

“But—” Ilsa felt as though she were stuttering now. “But we’ve literally only been back together a matter of hours. Two weeks ago I was engaged to someone else!”

“The time doesn’t matter,” he replied. “I’m already as in love with you as it’s possible to be.”

She smiled at him, tears in her eyes.

“Okay, I tell you what,” she said. “Let’s give it a seemly amount of time, but have a short engagement. How does that sound? We could get married next spring or something.”

He grinned and nodded. “And I’ll actually get a ring,” he said, “and propose properly, maybe in the autumn.”

“In that case, yes,” Ilsa said, crying now. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”


	26. Strike Leaves

“I can’t believe that’s all the notice you get,” Nick said over a pint the following Saturday night. “You really have to be there on Monday?”

“That’s the Army for you,” Strike said. “Works out well, I only had a couple of weeks left on the flat anyway. I was going to have to decide if I was extending the lease or not.”

He paused. “It’s time to move on, anyway,” he said slowly. “I’ve had a couple of calls from a withheld number on my mobile.”

Nick looked at him. “You think it’s Charlotte?” he asked.

Strike grunted. “Feels like it,” he said. “Withholding her number, calling in the night, not leaving a message. That’s the kind of thing she’d do.”

“You can just tell her to fuck off, you know,” Nick said.

Strike looked away. “I know,” he said quietly. “Never seem to, though, do I?”

Nick shook his head. “No, you do not,” he said.

There was a pause.

Strike gave himself a mental shake, looked back at Nick. “So how’s it going?” he asked. “I’ve not seen you all week.”

Nick grinned. “Been busy,” he said, and Strike laughed. “So I gather,” he said. “Claire says you’ve practically moved in.”

Nick nodded. “Must do something about that, it’s not really fair on Claire,” he said. “But my house is pretty crazy, a bunch of junior doctors coming and going at all hours. We might have to get our own place.”

“Wow, that’s moving pretty quick,” Strike said.

“Yup,” Nick said. “Speaking of which, will you still be about next spring?”

“If I do the phase two training as well, which I’m hoping to,” Strike replied. “Why?”

Nick grinned, a little self-conscious suddenly. “Need a best man,” he said.

Strike stared at him.

“Bloody hell, Herbert, that is moving fast,” he said.

Nick nodded. “I’m not letting her go this time,” he said.

“Have you actually told her about all these plans?” Strike said.

Nick glared a little. “Yes,” he said. “I told you, I’m not messing it up again. I asked her to marry me and she said yes.”

Strike looked at him for a long moment, and then his face broke into a broad smile. “Well, in that case, congratulations,” he said warmly, clapping his old friend on the shoulder. “And I’ll be delighted to do the honours.”

Nick nodded. “We’re keeping it quiet just for now,” he said. “I think Ilsa was a bit conscious of going from one engagement to another so fast. I’ll get her a ring in a couple of months and we’ll tell the families then and set a date for the spring.”

Strike nodded. “My lips are sealed,” he said. “That’s great news, though, seriously, mate. I’m chuffed for you. Both of you,” he nodded towards the door, and Nick looked round to see Ilsa and Claire making their way across the room towards them.

Ilsa grinned at him as she approached, so animated, so...sparkly somehow. Nick wondered if his heart would ever not lurch at the sight of her. He suspected not. He stood to greet her, and Strike stood too. Claire gave Strike a kiss on the cheek and went to the bar for drinks.

Ilsa kissed Nick and turned to Strike, and gave a squeak of surprise to find herself enveloped in a bear hug. She hugged him back. “Congratulations,” he murmured in her ear, and she pulled back, flushing, and looked at Nick.

“I thought we were keeping it quiet?” she whispered.

Nick grinned shamelessly. “Got to tell the best man, check when he’s free,” he said. “No one else, I promise.”

Ilsa laughed. “I guess so,” she said, and glanced shyly back to Strike. “Then thank you,” she said softly, and he grinned at her.

“I’ll go help Claire with the drinks,” he said, and went to the bar. Nick and Ilsa sat.

“We need to stay goodbye to Oggy tonight,” Nick said. “He’s got to be in Portsmouth on Monday, probably going down tomorrow, he said.”

Ilsa nodded sadly. “Claire said,” she said. “I think she’ll miss him. Might have to evict you for a few days so I can spend some time with her.”

Nick nodded. “No problem,” he said, lacing his fingers in hers on the table. “We have all the time in the world.”

He glanced at her sideways. “Having said that, though, I might start looking for flats.”

Ilsa blushed a little and nodded. Strike and Claire were making their way back from the bar with the drinks. She lowered her voice.

“I love you,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.

“I love you too,” he replied, grinning at her, dazed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand that’s it. More than twice as long, and I’m still not sure that I like it any better. This rewrite has been my nemesis, but it’s done now 😂


End file.
